Cult

by Warren Adler

  “Everything is fine now,” O’Hara said, turning again to Amos. “We know. Mary told us the truth about the girl.”

  Amos closed his eyes again and shook his head from side to side, as if trying to escape from himself. O’Hara pressed his attack.

  “The Heavenly Father is very pleased with you. You have done your duty.”

  Tiny sweat drops burst out on Amos’ forehead. His head rolled back, his Adam’s apple strained against the taut skin of his throat.

  “The Heavenly Father is very proud of you. But he is very upset with Mary for what she had told. You’ve resisted Satan very well, Amos.”

  The young man writhed, as if another person was struggling inside of him. Naomi was frightened, too mesmerized now to contemplate her indignation. O’Hara glanced toward her, flashing a thin, sardonic smile.

  “Mary’s sister was gripped by Satan. You and Mary had to do it. She was going to run to them, hurt all your brothers and sisters. Jeremiah told you how important it was. Didn’t he?”

  Amos nodded.

  “Bastard.” Barney croaked. Roy gripped him quickly, putting a heavy arm around his neck. Barney strained for a moment, shuddered, then quieted.

  “She had to die, didn’t she, Amos?”

  He nodded.

  “And you and Mary had to do it because it was important to the Heavenly Father, wasn’t it?”

  Amos nodded vigorously.

  “But you knew she had gone to the spirit world and you had done a good thing?”

  Again he nodded, and O’Hara continued to stroke his shoulder. He had stopped writhing. An odd process of unstiffening began, as if his bones and muscle had suddenly turned to jelly.

  The room seemed to Naomi to be floating in space, encased in a bubble. Inside, it was airless. Nothing stirred. She wanted to cry out, but when the scream came, it was not hers. Like the cry of an animal caught in a trap, Amos’ shattering scream speared out of the vacuum of his consciousness. Like a flashing knife, it sliced into the room. She felt the sharp sting of some unfamiliar pain.

  The young man clung to O’Hara, the metaphorical lost son to the searching father, his body wracked with sobs. An exorcism. It was the first idea that came to her. Barney had collapsed as well into the thick arms of Roy, who held him upright, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, helpless.

  “It’s all right, Jack.”

  “They ripped you off, Jack. I’m sorry.”

  After a while, the young man calmed. Lifting his head, he showed them a tear-stained face, nose running snot.

  “Just breathe deep,” O’Hara said. “You’re free now. That’s the important thing. You’re safe now.”

  Suddenly, the lifeless puppet that was Barney sprang to life, twisting out of Roy’s grasp, lunging for Jack. Before he could reach him, Roy grabbed him and pulled him away.

  “Not his fault,” O’Hara said, standing up.

  “Pay dirt,” Roy mumbled. “He’s out.”

  He looked at Barney.

  “Sorry, man. It won’t do any good.” Reaching out, Roy helped Barney to his feet.

  “Can’t blame him,” O’Hara said.

  “Who then?” Barney whispered.

  “That’s the point. Who?” He looked at Naomi.

  “Still not convinced?”

  Without a word, O’Hara grasped her arm and led her back to Mary’s room. Roy and Jack followed behind them. Barney recovered somewhat and stayed in the main room.

  Surreal, Naomi thought, trying to fix it in her mind, preparing it for recall. Surely, she would have to tell someone about this. She tried to imagine how differently she and Barney would see these events.

  Chapter 18

  Mary’s head was still turned toward the wall, but the noise of their coming stirred her and she began again. “Resist the devil! Resist the devil!”

  O’Hara thrust Jack in front of her. He dropped to his knees on the mattress, his eyes staring at the girl, who, in the brief turn, had seen his face. Grabbing Mary by the hair, O’Hara forced her down to her knees, then braced her shoulders with his thighs. In this position, she could only avoid confronting Jack by closing her eyes, which she did.

  Roy had come forward, kneeling near Jack, locking his body in a headlock. Watching the scene despite her convictions, Naomi felt a spark of fascination. It magnetized her, held her in suspenseful anticipation. At the same time, it appalled her.

  Barney stood mute leaning against the wall of the room. He said nothing, his eyes narrowing as he watched the scene unfold. She could tell that something was brewing in his mind, something that was sure to end badly.

  Jack began to melt again, tears rolled down his cheeks. Strained sobs burst out of him.

  “Tell her, Jack,” O’Hara said. The girl’s head strained against his grip.

  The young man was too choked with emotion to speak.

  “Stop this,” Naomi commanded. But they would not listen to her.

  “You helped drown your own sister. It’s straight to hell for you now. Straight to the burning pits. Tell her, Jack. She was there beside you, drowning the life out of her own sister. Before God, you have shamed yourself. ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Thou shalt not kill.” He repeated the words through clenched teeth.

  Jack looked up suddenly, calm and clear-eyed. Roy stroked his shoulder.

  “It’s okay, man. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “It was her,” he said, oddly rational. “She told me it was all right. She told me Jeremiah said it was all right.”

  Mary slowly opened her eyes, directing them at Jack. Her gaze was burning, powerful, as if her entire being was concentrating its heat. Naomi saw the power of it, the force of faith, cosmic and mysterious, reaching out for the young man again. Quickly, Roy’s big paw shut out the gaze, taking the full wad of spit that Mary hurled out of her mouth.

  “Satan,” she croaked. Then suddenly, belying her helplessness, she cried out in an ear-splitting screech, “Do not forsake me, Father!”

  Still, O’Hara did not release Mary, pulling tightly on her hair, bending her head further back, as incoherent sounds gurgled in her throat.

  “You killed her,” he hissed. “You know you killed her. You committed the worst sin of all. You killed your own sister, blood of your parents.”

  Mary clamped her eyes shut, beginning her incantation again. “Resist the devil. Resist the devil.”

  “Damn it!” O’Hara said gruffly, releasing Mary, who quickly moved up against the wall again, her face turned from them, repeating the words. Naomi started toward her, but O’Hara restrained her, dragging her from the room, despite her resistance. Barney followed, lost in his own thoughts.

  “Stop it!” Naomi screamed. “Enough of this!”

  O’Hara said nothing.

  “You’ve got to be punished for this,” Naomi said.

  “Yeah. Maybe Father Glory will do that.”

  “I’m glad she’s resisting you. I’m proud of her.”

  O’Hara turned away, his expression of exasperation clear.

  ***

  Jack sat stiffly on the couch, his head in his hands, as if the raw brutality of this reality was too much to bear. O’Hara paced the room nervously. Barney leaned against the wall, impassive, inert.

  Naomi’s eyes drifted to the front door. “Locked,” Roy said, noting her interest. Then he put his arm around the forlorn Jack.

  “It’s okay, man,” he said. “Just like coming out of a deep sleep.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Jack mumbled. “The things I did. And that girl.” He shuddered.

  “You didn’t know what you were doing. You’re not responsible.”

  Roy’s solicitousness bothered her as well, so out of character with his previous indifference and brutality. He must have sensed her questioning.

  “This kid needs a lot of
loving care now. Like coming out of the womb. He’s been on a real heavy trip.” Roy looked at Naomi. “Leave it be.”

  She felt a compulsion to know, to be certain. Had they put that idea into his head? She thought of Mary, brutalized by her captors.

  He squeezed Jack affectionately. “You hungry now, man?” Jack looked up, showing the full extent of his remorse. He shook his head.

  “Gotta eat. Gotta keep your strength up.”

  Slapping his thighs, Roy got up and went into the kitchen, clattering pans. Naomi ignored him and continued to look at the young man. She sat beside him on the couch.

  “Is it true?” she asked. “It’s important that I know. I don’t understand any of this.” When he didn’t answer, she spoke again: “Is it true?”

  Jack nodded his head in the affirmative, then put his hands over his face in shame.

  “He understands now,” O’Hara said, who had been sitting at the table, brooding. “The problem is getting other people to realize it.” There was no doubt whom he meant.

  “You’ll be okay, kid. You got relatives. Parents. We’ve got to get you home. Where is it?” Roy asked from the kitchen.

  “Steubenville, Ohio.” His hands went up to his face again. “How terrible I’ve been. I never went to Dad’s funeral. I gave them all the money he left me. Mom said she would never speak to me again.”

  “She will,” O’Hara said. “They all do. When we get to a phone, I’ll call. Do you remember the number?”

  The young man’s struggle with his memory was palpable.

  “That’s okay, Jack,” O’Hara said. “I know your real name. I’ll find the number.”

  “Now all we have left is the other one. She’s going to take longer,” Roy said.

  O’Hara looked at his watch. “Damn. No sense kidding myself. She needs a good week.”

  “A week?”

  “They’ve got her good.” O’Hara got up from the chair and began to pace the room, running his fingers through his hair. Barney sat down at the table, put his notebook before him and began to write.

  “Without her confirmation,” O’Hara said, “we’re between the devil and the deep blue sea.” His levity angered her, but she kept it hidden, thinking of Mary and her promise, which was now impossible to honor. She also thought of Barney. He was lost in himself, still investing his passion in the long monologue of his notebook. She felt like her mind was stalled.

  Roy opened the shutters. Faint daylight filtered through the screens. A nearly sunless morning was creeping in. He doused the lights, bathing their faces in a floury whiteness. Then he brought in piles of griddle cakes, grits and bacon, placing steaming plates on the wooden table.

  Jack was in the fetal position on the couch, fast asleep. Roy lifted him and carried him into the room where he had been.

  “Poor bastard. He’ll sleep for weeks now,” O’Hara said. “He’s got a new nightmare to face. Reality.” He sat down at the table. Roy sat down beside him. Naomi could not bring herself to join them. Barney was busy with his notebook, lost in himself.

  “Won’t hurt to eat,” O’Hara said to her with a look of rebuke.

  “Not until she does,” Naomi said, gesturing toward the door where Mary was kept. The woman was silent.

  “Never learn,” O’Hara muttered, pouring gobs of syrup over the griddle cakes, cutting into them angrily with his fork, stuffing his mouth.

  She stood up.

  “Can I go in and stay with her?”

  “Hell no,” O’Hara said with a full mouth. “Next thing you know, we’ll have to worry about you.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she snapped. Shaking his head, he pointed a fork at her.

  “I won’t.”

  She sat down again.

  “We’re both being held here against our will.”

  “You came by choice, remember?”

  “They killed Charlotte, Nay.” It was Barney’s voice, fluttering into her consciousness.

  “I’m not ready to accept that,” she said. She had witnessed the violence of these men. She was taught to be suspicious of people who claim doing good by being bad. That old excuse. If Barney hadn’t come for his wife, Charlotte would still be alive. All she did was exercise an act of conscience.

  O’Hara, eyes narrowed, watched her and she was certain he read her thoughts clearly.

  “You think we put the thought there… in Jack’s mind?”

  “I think it’s possible,” she said cautiously.

  Roy shook his head as he wiped his plate clean with a shred of griddle cake.

  “It all comes out in the wash anyhow,” he said, lifting the dripping shred. “Don’t waste your breath.”

  It was true the mind could be reshaped, she conceded, but the moral spirit was inviolate. Without that, the integrity of self, humanity dies. They were highfalutin concepts, but she held to them with tenacious purpose. To change an idea, however hateful or illogical, one could never resort to kidnapping, imprisonment, isolation, coercion. Not physical force. That was patently wrong.

  What she had seen in the Glory camp were people captured by an idea, but she had seen no barbed wire, no guns, no cages, none of the visible trappings of real oppression, the kind she fought against in other countries. The loftiness of her ideas bolstered her resolve. Barney, O’Hara, Roy, these were angry men, failed, frustrated men, seared by the terrible flame of defeat. They had not had their way in life. Oppression was endemic in this place. Locks were everywhere, keys in the hands of the masters.

  O’Hara slapped his thighs and stood up.

  “Back to the drawing board,” he said. “But I don’t think I can break her in time.” He looked at his watch. “We’ve got till noon.”

  “And then it’s all over?” Barney stood up, fists clenched, menacing.

  “I’m doing my best. I’m not a magician.”

  “We still got the other one,” Roy said.

  “But you said yourself it’s not enough,” Barney snapped. “Why can’t we get out of here? Go someplace else. Get some more time.”

  “We could be buying trouble for the rest of our lives,” O’Hara said. For the first time, Naomi detected a faltering confidence.

  “I’ve already bought that concept,” Barney said, glaring at them.

  “It’s not going to bring her back,” O’Hara said, with surprising gentleness. His eyes were heavy with fatigue.

  “But him….” His head tilted toward the room in which Jack was sleeping. “He’s confessed.”

  In the moment of tense silence, another sound intruded. A motor coughing in the distance. Roy jumped toward the door, fishing for his key, while O’Hara quickly spun the combination lock on the broom closet where they kept the guns, opening it, removing the submachine guns. He threw one to Barney. O’Hara grabbed a pistol and put it in his belt.

  “You stay,” Barney commanded Naomi holding her arm as O’Hara and Roy rushed out the door. “Sorry, Nay,” he muttered. She remained silent.

  Through the window grating, she saw the two men running, crouching, using the trees that edged the road as cover. Barney watched them from another window. A car’s motor angrily sputtered and whined, pushing a vehicle up the sloping washboard road.

  In the gray morning light, the men seemed like bad actors in a melodrama, striking poses for some impending staged bloodbath, the kind of painless, sanitary killing one saw in Westerns. Another game, she thought, feeling no sense of personal danger.

  The Sheriff’s car came into view. She saw the upper part of his torso, fighting the wheel as the car bounced, halting finally in a copse beside the house. The two men revealed themselves now, O’Hara holding his pistol. Roy slung the submachine gun to his shoulder. The Sheriff moved out of the car, his face ashen, his features troubled.

  The three men talked in hushed whispers, grimacing, kicking the
ground like impatient horses. In the way they held themselves, despite their differences in stance, she observed their tension. At one point in their conversation, O’Hara looked up, squinting toward the house. His companions followed his gaze. Then they moved out of view, angling toward the side of the house.

  She forced herself to consider alternatives. The door was not locked. She could run for cover, perhaps lose herself in the thick forest. Then what? She rejected that possibility. Perhaps if the Sheriff knew that she was no longer a willing participant, they might desist, knowing that she would be a hostile witness. But even that possibility was unappealing.

  She had no desire to hurt these men, certainly not Barney, who had been through more than enough pain. No! She would agree to forget the entire episode, walk away from it, providing they left everything status quo and returned the girl to the camp and, if Jack, after due reflection, decided upon that course as well, to let him go back freely. Or home to Ohio if he so chose. If that made her naïve, so be it. She would not be a party to this sham of imprisonment and coercion. Barney would hate her, of course, but she had to accept that. She would also have to make peace with herself. It was time to act.

  Committed, she walked out of the cabin, and headed toward the men beside the house. They looked up, startled, but did not move to meet her. She noted that the faces of the three men seemed troubled and uncertain.

  “I’ve had quite enough…,” she began.

  “That’s not the issue anymore,” O’Hara said. She had expected some form of physical intervention, and was fully prepared for it. It puzzled her when they made no move to approach her.

  “Why don’t you go back in the house?” the Sheriff said. He looked desperately tired, but his voice was reasonable, gentle.

  “Not until you tell me this is over.”

  The men exchanged glances.

  “It is,” O’Hara said with an air of utter defeat.

  “It’s the only way,” the Sheriff said, talking to O’Hara. O’Hara’s response had represented a kind of consent.