Bronson huffed and gulped down more brandy. “Allow me to expound, then, a bit more. What poses the problem isn’t that you’ve chosen to preach the gospel, it’s the sheer quantity of those you’re preaching the gospel to.” A pause. “I’m told, since involving yourself with this particular work detail, the religious congregation has increased in number by a factor of ten…from around twenty to two hundred. Would you say that’s accurate?”
Faith finally turned to face Bronson, her expression emotionless and bold. “Not quite.”
“Not quite?”
“Being altogether accurate, the number is two hundred fifty-six.”
“Oh—pardon me,” quipped Bronson. “We’re talking about a noteworthy cluster of people here, Mrs. Gallo. And in light of that, those in positions of authority are of the perception…that you aren’t just amassing parishioners for the church. Rather, it’s giving off the impression that you’re creating an army of followers for yourself.”
“They aren’t my followers,” Faith said sternly. “They most assuredly are not an army, and they definitely aren’t mine to claim. And neither is the church.”
Bronson lifted an eyebrow. “They refer to themselves as your disciples, do they not?”
Faith shook her head angrily, her brow furrowed. “They only use the expression in a playful manner, and I’ve never taken it to mean anything else. Nor would I, ever.”
Bronson held up a hand. “I’ve seen photo stills as well as video surveillance footage, Mrs. Gallo. I’ve seen how they act around you and interact with you. Along with that, I’ve heard and read numerous reports on the matter, so there’s no need to downplay. It’s obvious to me, you’re exercising some sort of…power over these people. They follow you around like three-week-old puppies yearning for their mother’s milk.”
Bronson poured another drink and took a long swallow. “Now…this doesn’t come as a surprise to me, as many men and women of clergy carry with them similar attributes—the ability to persuade and influence, and even have shown the tendency to become leaders at times. But you—you’ve done something rather extraordinary. You’ve managed to somehow curry the favor of—as you so eloquently corrected me—two hundred and fifty-six people, and you’ve done so in a matter of months while quartered inside a post-catastrophe resettlement camp, no less.”
Bronson paused, scratching his head. “You know…this power you possess is a rare gift—almost supernatural, really. It’s something that can be used to further the greater good, but at the same token, it’s something that can just as easily be exploited.”
Faith scowled at him. Bronson nodded dismissively, his lower lip protruding.
“Mr. Bronson, I am providing a service to these people—acting only as a servant—as a channel between them and the Lord. I’m attempting to show them the way to everlasting life, one that awaits them even after death. Of the two people present in this room, neither one of us are supernatural, by any means. And I’m certainly not the one playing God.”
The DHS chief sneered, absorbing Faith’s insult and then wringing it out like a half-soaked sponge. “It’s critical to realize, Mrs. Gallo, that we can use a person like you. We can harness your gifts to benefit others, not just yourself. To support the mission of rebuilding our country, not add hinderance to it. What you’re capable of can be utilized both morally and ethically—and lawfully—instead of wasting them away on this praise-the-lord, holy-roller shit-show you’ve autonomously gathered together. I prefer to see you make the choice to do the right thing here—today. Otherwise, I fear it can only lead to one highly unfortunate event.”
Faith lost her expression while inching closer to Bronson’s desk. “You mean a revelation?”
Bronson nearly spit out his drink. “Actually, the term I was going to use, had you asked, was bloodshed.”
“Mr. Bronson,” Faith began, clenching her teeth, “I am a person who appreciates candor just as much as brevity. If there’s something you want to say to me, please just cut to the chase. I think you know where I stand, and I certainly have no doubts concerning your position. Therefore, I see no reason for either of us to further whitewash or sugarcoat topics.”
“Damn—you really are a special kind of sanctimonious, aren’t you?” Bronson laughed and shook his head, then leaned forward casually over his desk. “Look, Mrs. Gallo. These virtues…that you’re providing your flock with—faith, hope, love, grace, patience, yadda yadda—they don’t serve any useful function, because the people don’t have any use for them. You’re empowering them, and they do not require empowerment. They were placed here under our care for a purpose, same as you were, and what you’re currently doing only serves to subvert that purpose.”
Faith rolled her lips between her teeth. “What would you have me do, then? Deny them? Deny my faith? Deny God? Deny what I’m being called upon to do here?”
“No. Nothing like that. Just cease and desist, for starters,” Bronson said. “Then tomorrow, or whenever you meet up again, go back to your so-called disciples and offer them a simple yet humble apology. Tell them you screwed up…that it was all a hoax…and you are not who you have pretended to be, and you unintentionally misled them. Hell, you could even be theatrical, like some of the televangelists who fell from grace in the nineteen eighties—drudge up some tears and throw yourself on the stage, beg for God’s mercy if you want, for all I care. The bottom line is, these individuals must revert to the same tiers that put them here. They need to be—”
“Undesirable?” Faith interjected. “Was that the word you intended to use this time? Let me see if I’m following. You want me to go back to my church, stand at my pulpit, and preach to God’s children—the so-called undesirables—and tell them to never mind everything they’ve learned and ignore the hope they’ve gained and confidence they’ve achieved. You want me to tell them to go back to being undesirable…and continue being undesirable?” Faith’s eyes grew wide. “Are you mad?”
“If you can quiet a crowd of two hundred and fifty-six people by means of a simple hand gesture, I’m sure you can accomplish anything you set your mind to, Mrs. Gallo,” said Bronson. “Hell, you never know. Maybe your next trick will be to walk on water, or talk to a burning bush. Maybe you could work your way up to parting the Red Sea all over again—you could practice with the Shenandoah River, it’s just a few miles down the road.” Bronson finished with a self-absorbed laughing fit, one that triggered convulsions throughout his plump body.
“I don’t find that even the least bit amusing.”
“Well, if it’s not amusing, I’m not sure what to call it.”
“It’s repulsive and sacrilegious. Not to mention pathetic.”
Bronson’s laughter slowed to a halt and he took yet another slow sip of brandy. “Perhaps you’re right. Let’s get back to the nitty-gritty, then. I believe, in so many words, I left you with a choice to make. So what’s it going to be, Faith? Compliance? Or a nonstop people-versus-common-good rebellion? Before you answer, know this—you may have the power of influence, but the man sitting before you, whose office you’re standing in, has the power of preeminence. I have the authority to declare a moratorium on anything I choose—including what’s left of your life—and I can destroy everything you hold dear with the flick of a finger.” He placed his thumb and middle finger together, snapping them for effect. “I can end it all for you…everything, in the blink of an eye.”
Faith hesitated, steadying herself. “Your threats fall on deaf ears, Mr. Bronson. Despite the sordid irreverence you have so eagerly put on display today, you of all people must know I’m not afraid of death.”
“My dear, trust me when I say this…there are far worse things than death.”
Faith nodded, turning her head away. “I’m not denying that. But there’s nothing I have left that you haven’t already taken from me.”
Bronson’s grin faded. “You’re certain of that fact?”
Faith didn’t look at him and refused to respond. All she could
do was wonder what else this monstrosity of a man could possibly have up his sleeve for her today.
“Well, if that’s the case…I guess this conversation is over. There’s just one more thing I’d like your opinion on before we part ways today, if you’ll indulge me.” Bronson gushed while palming his computer mouse. “Tell me, Faith. Have you ever heard of walling?”
“Walling?”
“Yes. It’s an enhanced interrogation technique…used for extracting information.”
Faith frowned, unsure where the balding man was going with this. “That’s a common euphemism. I think the proper word is torture.”
“Semantics, Mrs. Gallo, semantics. A subject’s neck is enclosed with a collar of sorts and attached to a mechanism—almost like a reel on a fishing rod. The mechanism is then used to repeatedly slam a subject against a concrete wall, or in some cases, depending on the mechanism, slam the wall against the subject. It’s fascinating…and quite entertaining, really.”
Bronson opened a window on his monitor, displaying a video of a well-lit empty room with white-painted floors and walls. He clicked the play button and several large men wearing masks and black uniforms entered, escorting a frail, hooded man in a torn and stained hospital gown, which barely hung to his knees.
When the men in black began attaching a collar-like device around the man’s neck, Faith turned her head away, knowing full well what she was about to witness.
Bronson turned up the volume on his computer just as a machinelike whirring noise emanated through the speakers, followed by a violent, hair-raising SMACK, and what Faith guessed could only be the hooded man’s muffled cries of pain.
“Ouch!” Bronson yelped. “That’s going to leave a mark.”
Faith turned away fully, completely revolted, her stomach turning. As she went to plug her ears with her fingers, she heard another soul-crushing SMACK.
Bronson clicked to fast-forward through the foulest portion of the video, stopping at a point where the scene had changed, along with the method of interrogation. “I’m also an aficionado of another enhanced interrogation—sorry, torture technique. I’m certain you’ve heard of it before. At one time, it was all over the news, causing all sorts of hysteria. The CIA used it often in their black sites…Abu Ghraib, Bagram, even Guantanamo Bay. It was their preferred method due to it being so damn effective.”
Faith allowed the word to slip out in a whisper. “Waterboarding.” She peered out the corner of her eye to Bronson’s screen, verifying her guess had been right.
While the video commenced and an agent began pouring water over the face of the same hooded captive, Bronson remained off the cuff. “You know, the use of tactics such as these was at one time believed to be in violation of international laws. Something about the Geneva Convention, human rights for extrajudicial detainees, and all that jive. The Bush administration saw it differently, though, especially after 9/11. Yep, they cut right through that red tape and nonsense—the introduction of the Patriot Act and our new war on terrorism declared the Geneva Convention inert.” He paused, turning his head to Faith, examining her. “Which reminds me…Bush was a republican, wasn’t he? Which means you probably voted for him, did you not?”
Several minutes passed as the agents in black within the video continued to waterboard their hostage while he struggled, groaned, and gasped. But the man’s struggles became less and less evident and then, eventually, ceased completely.
“Every once in a while, the subject dies on the table,” Bronson stated. “Waterboarding is only supposed to cause a sensation of drowning, when executed properly. If executed improperly, such as pouring water over the breathing passages without interruption, it is entirely possible for asphyxiation to occur—it just doesn’t occur often.” He turned his head to Faith and pointed to his screen. “In this case, it did indeed occur. Man down.”
Faith took a deep breath and turned, sensing Bronson would not relent until he had her full, undivided attention—something she felt she could offer him now that the event being portrayed on video had apparently ended. But what she saw next caused Faith to nearly go ballistic.
Another masked individual in a solid black uniform entered the camera’s aperture and pranced over to the waterboarding table while the others dispersed. Unlike the rest, this person was slender and appeared female.
Faith could sense it—she knew it was Beatrice Carter a second before the woman unmasked herself, her condescending smile beaming into the camera lens. Faith glowered. What’s this about?
Beatrice slithered, walking backward while still facing the camera, to the body strapped to the inclining table. Then, independent of emotion, she yanked off the soaking wet hood and turned the man’s face to the camera.
Faith shrieked and caterwauled, her hands soaring upward in a flash to cover her mouth, muffle her cries, and conceal her terror-stricken face. The man was beaten, broken, and nearly indistinguishable, but Faith knew who he was. It was Sam. It was her husband.
In no time whatsoever, Faith fell to pieces. She felt unsteady and faint, and the walls began closing in on her while hundreds of emotions tore through her body like surges of electrical current.
Time went into a standstill while memories of her husband and of their life together flooded her—the first time they’d met, the first time they’d had coffee together, the wedding at the chapel near Smith Mountain Lake, and their first house.
She could hear Bronson saying something to her, but Faith squelched it while appraising her husband’s fatigued and anguished face—the face of a man who had been tortured to death. Then her eyes found the video’s time stamp. It was the day of the sermon…the day she had noticed Beatrice in the rear of the chapel. It was exactly one week ago today. She’d been standing there, idle like some demon, her jaw set, her pupils fixed and constricted, piercing everything she gazed upon, as though she was readying herself for a fight. And now, it made sense why, and Faith just couldn’t bear to fathom it all.
All this time, she had believed Sam had already been dead for months—she had even resigned herself to it, assuming he had been exterminated just as he had foretold would happen. Faith had prayed for him, mourned him, and shed tears for him hundreds of times since then. She’d closed that chapter in her life and had moved on, knowing one day they would be together again in the afterlife. Finding out that Sam had been alive all this time wasn’t troubling her, but coming to the realization that she had just been forced to witness his torture and resultant murder was causing Faith to undergo emotions she had never experienced before. She was beside herself.
Faith felt disoriented—like an atomic bomb had been detonated within her soul. Her soul was crushed, and she knew now, with all certainty, her internal feelings were visibly evident. She was shaking. Her lips were trembling, and she was cold and pale all over. She was angry now—far more than she had ever been before—and wanted nothing more than to take matters into her own hands. But she knew better. The sadistic, sorry excuse for a human being sitting near her had already prepared for the contingency. In fact, she reminded herself, he had already planned everything, all the way up and to this very point. Don’t give in. Don’t give him what he wants, Faith. She bit down hard, gritting her teeth.
Faith knew that Bronson was watching her every move like an expert poker player surveying for tells. He was waiting for a reaction—one that would act as the cornerstone of how everything would play out from this point forward. If Faith didn’t play the proper card right here and now, this abomination of a man was going to be capable of guessing her moves from here till eternity.
Although she felt like she was dying inside, Faith steeled herself. She used her hands to push her slumping body upward from the DHS leader’s desk. “Am I free to go?” she asked, her voice disconsolate and withdrawn.
Doug Bronson produced a bulldozed smirk that protruded outward, almost to the point of becoming fish lips. “Of course! So long as we have an understanding, you may return at your leisure.”
<
br /> Faith didn’t have the strength to offer a response. She barely had the fortitude to inch her way to the door of Bronson’s office.
Just before Faith reached for the handle, the door opened and a tall, skinny, blonde woman glided into the office, a vicious smile plastered on her face. “Well, Mrs. Gallo,” Beatrice purred. “Imagine my surprise seeing you here. Tell me, how are you today? You look a might down, if you don’t mind me saying so.” An extended pause followed as Beatrice’s mouth set in a hard line. “I take it you’ve already seen our feature presentation?”
Faith couldn’t believe it. She wanted to reimburse whatever glare she was getting from Beatrice a hundredfold. She wanted to crucify her, denigrate her by some means, but didn’t want to chance looking Beatrice’s way, thinking it just might put her over the edge. Faith was already on the verge of a full-on nervous breakdown. It was all she could do to bottle up her feelings after what she had just beheld and endured moments ago.
Bronson snapped his fingers. “Oh, Mrs. Gallo? Excuse me…do we have an understanding? Or do we not?”
Faith ignored him. She could hear Beatrice half-talking, half-laughing and Bronson responding to the blonde bimbo in kind, but she could not make out the words, and she did not care to.
“Your silence is deafening,” jeered Bronson. “Am I to take it you’ve drawn a line in the sand? Do you think you’re just going to get away with defying me? Keep bucking the system and see where you wind up once the smoke settles?”
“She must’ve figured you out already, Doug,” Beatrice drawled. “All things considered, she isn’t stupid—she knows you won’t kill her. It would only serve to turn her into a martyr, and heaven knows, we don’t need that.”
Bronson rose from his chair, seemingly irritated at Faith’s lack of response. “What are you going to do, Faith? You gonna rage against the dying of the light? Go forth and force all your minions to do the same? Every last one of you—all two hundred fifty-six of you—all raging, crying, and screaming…all the way to their graves?”
What's Left of My World (Book 3): We Won't Go Quietly Page 14