Cult

by Warren Adler

  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 mutt
ered.

  “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.”

  “How it is,” she corrected.

  “Better than dead,” Barney said.

  “It’s the only way,” Roy said, rising on big, muscled haunches. He slowly pushed aside the planks that held Amos’ door and went in. O’Hara quickly replaced the planks.

  “What’s he going to do in there?”

  “Just sit. Keep him from sleeping.” He shook his head. “Look, Naomi, we’ve got to get them to put down their guard. To exhaust them. Same methods used by the Glories. Trust me. I’ve done it for both sides many times.”

  “Trust you?” Naomi sneered. “How can I?”

  Two wrongs don’t make a right, she told herself. Charlotte’s dead face floated in her mind.

  She couldn’t eat but she did have a cup of coffee. Barney, bitter and mourning, sat at the other end of the table, writing in his notebook. She couldn’t blame him. Not really. Nor could she summon pity for him.

  She became aware of O’Hara offering instructions in a flat, authoritative tone, a monologue that outlined the housekeeping conditions of their stay. There was one extra bedroom, with twin beds. They would take two hours’ sleep and two hours’ duty, which meant sitting with the “subjects.” So they had become less than human in their identification as well. Roy would keep sandwiches and coffee handy around the clock, including providing the subjects with oatmeal mush three times a day.

  “There is a shower out back,” O’Hara pointed out with an attempt at humor, “if you begin to smell skunk on your body.” No one laughed.

  In the brief silence that followed, they could still hear Mary’s voice. It had become diminished to a harsh, brittle whisper.

  “When that stops,” O’Hara said to Naomi, “you go in there and sit with her. Make sure she doesn’t get any sleep. You, Harrigan. Be sure to get those planks back.” He looked at his watch. “I’m gonna get some sack time. I’ll be going around the clock.” Stretching, he lumbered across the room to the bedroom, stopping before he opened the door.

  “When Roy goes out,” he said to Barney, “you go in.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just don’t let him sleep. Think of them both as a roast cooking. I’ll be coming in and basting them from time to time.”

  “Let her stew for awhile, then go in. Watch her. Let her scream.”

  He went into the bedroom, leaving Barney and Naomi alone together.

  For a long time, she did not face him, although she found herself listening to his breathing, imagining she could hear his heartbeat.

  “This is all my fault, Nay,” he said. It rang hollow in her mind.

  “No one is to blame but them,” she murmured. Still she did not face him. Thankfully, he did not wait for a response. “All I want is the truth o
f what happened to Charlotte. Those two know. Jeremiah ordered it. It’s a no-brainer. We need their testimony. I owe Charlotte that.”

  Odd, she thought in a burst of clarity, how the mind comes up with motives. He had found another part of his revenge plot.

  “And then?”

  “Then?” Without seeing his expression, she was certain he looked at her pointedly, perhaps with bitterness.

  “We’ll have grounds for a murder conviction. It’s a start. We have to expose them, dismantle them. Bastards. The truth is… I’d rather kill them.”

  She shuddered. She knew he was being honest. That part of him had not changed. Vengeance was powerful, escalating, feeding on itself. She had seen it too often in her work. “Fire with fire,” the spokesman of authority always said, responding to protests. The beleaguered always replied in kind, forever escalating violence, until death became as commonplace as weeds. It insulted man’s capacity for forgiveness.

  She felt a spiraling self-righteousness, the old feeling of moral outrage. For her, it had always been the only reality.

  “How do you fight evil?” she whispered, as if her mind had generated the words without her will.

  “Like this,” he said. She turned to face him.

  “You can’t fight evil with evil.” And yet, she was in it with them. In the silence that followed, she could clearly hear the woman in the barren room.

  “I guess it’s my turn then,” Naomi said nonchalantly.

  Getting up, she put her ear to the door, and then removing the planks, she grasped the doorknob.

  “Lock it after me,” she said. Barney rose immediately as she opened the door and entered the room.

  Mary was squatting on the mattress, her head resting against the wall. The light from the single bulb washed out her pale face, fleshed and pimpled from a bad diet. Her hair was still matted, her forehead shiny with perspiration, her eyes vague, her lips pressed tight together yet slightly puffed.