The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Little Austin and Little Dora …” God, how he’d hated the sound of those words. And his father, he’d hated his father, too. No, not hated, that wasn’t the word. And not contempt, either, not really. Embarrassment. Pity, perhaps. Those were the words. It wasn’t what his father did, but instead what he didn’t do—could have done, but didn’t do. Even as a child, a small child, sitting on a camp chair beside the pulpit, listening to his father preach, he’d sensed the futility, the waste. He could see it in the faces: the hunger, the urge to be led, the half-awakened desire to believe. They were like half-opened flowers—like, yes, lambs, ready for the slaughter. Ready, and willing.

  But his father was too timid to wield the knife. His father was a pale, worried man, a soft-spoken man, a small-minded man. Where others led, he followed; when others demanded, his father begged.

  Every Sunday afternoon, he would watch them: his father and his mother at the round oak dining room table, counting the collection money. First they’d begin with the bills: the dollar bills, and, a miracle, the occasional five, all of them neatly stacked. Then the half dollars and the quarters, and the dimes and the nickels and the pennies, too, all stacked. After the count had been made, and the results noted in a bound notebook, his father would shake his head.

  Only once had he really respected his father. He’d been eleven years old. For weeks, every Sunday, he’d taken a fifty-cent piece from the collection basket. He could still vividly remember the incredibly sweet taste of that forbidden fruit, the first time he’d slipped the half dollar in his pocket. Never before, never since, had he felt so breathlessly alive. Every sensation, every emotion, had been almost unbearably heightened: the shirt, soaked with sudden sweat, the stomach, abjectly quivering—the weight of the silver half dollar in his pocket, sin incarnate. Immediately, he’d wanted to put it back, rid himself of the tangible proof that he’d stolen money meant for the church. But the risk of returning it to the basket would be more than the risk of stealing it.

  Sunday after Sunday, legs shaking, carrying the collection basket with fifty cents missing, he’d walked up the aisle toward the pulpit, where his father stood smiling down on him, waiting to bless the offering. In the background, his mother played softly on their battered piano, the piano that had only brought twenty dollars at auction after his father’s death.

  After five weeks—two dollars and fifty cents—he’d come home from school to find his parents waiting for him, sitting like Herod’s judges in the living room, side by side in high-backed chairs. The five half dollars that he’d hidden in the toe of a bedroom slipper had been stacked neatly on the coffee table. His parents looked at him with long, mournful faces. It was the first time he’d realized how similar his parents looked.

  At first his father had prayed over him—while his mother had cried, and his sister had looked on with saucer eyes. Then, towering over him, his father asked him whether he repented, whether he realized the magnitude of his sin, stealing God’s money. Dry eyed, fists clenched at his sides, he’d first denied that he’d stolen the money. But, even as he said it, he could hear the tremor of guilt in his own voice, feel the fear of discovery flickering in his eyes. And he’d realized, too, that his denials only infuriated his father. So, hotly, he’d denied that it was God’s money that he’d taken. “If we buy things with it, things we use, then how can it be God’s money?” he’d asked. For a moment, taken aback, his father had been unable to speak. Then, sputtering, he’d said that he did God’s work.

  “You’re no good at it,” he’d shouted. “You’re a terrible preacher.”

  Instantly, his father had struck him: a numbing blow along the side of his head.

  It had been the only time he’d ever felt respect for his father—the first moment, and the last moment. Because, immediately, his father had fallen to his knees, asking heavenly forgiveness for the sin he’d committed.

  The blow had set his ears ringing. That night, his ear began to ache, and the pain was worse next day. Dr. Wyble was called, and an examination revealed that his eardrum was broken.

  It was then that he’d learned the incredible power of guilt. He’d learned in an instant. And he’d never forgotten.

  When he’d been fifteen years old, and his father had been fifty-five, his father had suffered his first stroke. The year had been 1937, still hard times. There’d been three hundred dollars in the bank account, and more than a thousand dollars in debts. Dr. Wyble had taken him aside and told him it would be months—years, maybe—before his father could preach again. He’d been aware of the small pang he’d experienced, unable to feel any remorse, any sadness. Then Dr. Wyble asked the question that had changed his life.

  “I was in Memphis last year,” the doctor had said, “and I heard Jimmy Smith speak. He’s about your age, and he’s been preaching for a long time now. The people seem to love him. Why couldn’t you do the same?” The doctor had paused, looked at him meaningfully, then said, “There’ll be bills, you know, with your father sick. Doctor bills, among others.”

  Clutched by the same wild, furtive contradictions of excitement and terror that he’d felt when he’d stolen his first half dollar from the collection basket, he’d done it, taken the pulpit, on the first Sunday following his father’s stroke. The word had gotten around town that he’d be preaching, and out of sympathy the congregation had been much larger than usual. When he’d stepped through the canvas flap and seen them, all eyes turned to him, he’d momentarily been stunned, incapable of movement, much less speech. But somehow, he’d made his way to the pulpit, which had been cut down for him the day before. His mother had coached him, but the sight of the congregation had driven her words from his thoughts. Yet, somehow, he was speaking. And, incredibly, he began to feel the response, that magical connection between the speaker and his audience that, on the rise, bore him miraculously on its crest, the miracle that still sustained him.

  At age fifteen, clutching his father’s pulpit with both hands, raising his voice to the heavens, he’d glimpsed the first and only miracle he’d ever witnessed: the power that one man could wield over the multitude of his inferiors.

  An hour later, with his shirt as soaked as it had been that first time he’d taken a half dollar, with the sound of voices raised to praise him, he’d stepped down from the dais, triumphant. The promised land had opened before him. From that moment on, he’d—

  From the sitting room he heard the door buzzer sound, two quick rings. Flournoy had come for him. As it had happened those many years ago, the boy triumphant over the hometown rubes, witnessing the miracle of eyes fervently kindled by words only he could speak, so would it happen tonight, the man beginning his ultimate mission.

  21

  “… GIVE YOU MR. AUSTIN Holloway, one of America’s foremost citizens.” Smiling, genially clapping, Clayton Brand turned to face Holloway, who rose to his feet, smiling, shaking hands with the movie star. It was a hearty, man-to-man handshake, perfectly staged.

  “Thank you, Clay. And congratulations.” Holloway held the handclasp as both men turned slightly toward the pool photographer, discreetly crouched in front of the head table. “I understand the new box office ratings are out. And you’re still number one.”

  Brand’s famous smile widened. “A testimony to the power of prayer, Austin. Prayer, and an inspired publicity department at the studio.”

  Along with the fifty-odd others in the room, the two men shared a warm, companionable laugh. They held the handclasp for another quick sequence of pictures, then Brand nodded, stepped back, kept the smile in place as he resumed his toastmaster’s seat. As Holloway turned to face his audience, Flournoy caught the photographer’s eye, signaled subtle dismissal. The message: no outsiders would bear witness to this meeting.

  Waiting for the applause to diminish, Holloway beamed as he swept the audience with a practiced eye: the public figure, long accustomed to the plaudits of his peers. His manner was affable, projecting quiet confidence, easy authority. Like the centra
l-casting perfection of Clayton Brand’s face, Holloway’s features perfectly suited his image. His thick, graying hair was dramatically styled, his forehead was broad, his jawline was decisive, his nose patrician, his mouth expressive. As he looked out over the audience, the easy conviviality in his fine blue eyes slowly sobered as the applause ended. But the eyes were still warm, the mouth still generously upcurved as he began to speak:

  “I must admit,” he said, “to a sense of gratification as I look out at this assemblage of faces—all male faces.” He waited for a small, appreciative ripple of laughter. “I’ll deny I ever said it, of course, but the truth is, when matters of real significance are discussed—when the big decisions are made—it always turns out to be an all-male gathering. Entirely men, and entirely off the record.”

  He paused again, nourishing the diminishing chuckles. Then: “As you’ve probably noticed—” Smiling, he swept the entire room with a broad gesture. “—there’re no outsiders present, not even any waiters. However, before they were dismissed, they left each table amply supplied with enough champagne, certainly, to see us through what will, I devoutly hope and believe, be a most significant time for all of us.”

  Once more he swept the room with the Holloway smile, once more he waited, this time for the predictable murmurs of assent and approval as he saw several in the audience good-naturedly pouring generous portions of champagne.

  So far, so good.

  Now, slowly, he allowed the genial smile to fade. The squared-off chin rose slightly; the voice lowered to a more somber note.

  “I deeply appreciate the effort you’ve all made to be with us tonight. I know how busy you all are. I fully realize that if this assemblage, this distinguished gathering, were ever to magically stumble into one of those science fiction time warps for a week or so, why, this country would suddenly be operating at half speed—or less.”

  Another smile, another genial sweep of the audience with the grin-crinkled blue eyes. Then, visibly signaling that the amenities had been concluded, Holloway’s face settled into a solemn cast as the timber of his voice deepened.

  “I’ve invited you all here tonight because, quite simply, I’m frightened. And when a man’s frightened, he does well to confess his misgivings and seek guidance from those he likes and respects. And that’s what I’m doing here tonight. That’s why I feel I must share with you my feelings—and my misgivings.” He let a masterfully timed moment pass while he made compelling eye contact with the man farthest from the lectern: Ralph Hager, president of Grayson Industries. For the rest of the sermon, Hager would be his focus.

  “I’m scared,” he said, “because I find it increasingly more difficult to recognize the America that I once knew, the America that I still love. Perhaps it’s advancing age; I suspect that might be part of it. I, like most of you, grew up in a simpler time, a time when people seemed to work harder than they do now. They worked harder, and they prayed harder, too. And I think—I deeply believe—that they were better for it, the people of our parents’ generation. I think life meant more to them. Because they had to work for what they got, they valued it more. And on Sunday, they went to church, and they thanked God for the bounty of the week just passed.” As he said it, he lifted his eyes midway to the ceiling, allowing his gaze to soften reflectively.

  “My father made his ministry among those simple, hardworking people. He understood them, because he was one of them. He preached beneath the patched canvas of a revivalist’s tent. In his closet there hung one suit, which my mother was hard pressed to keep clean and properly mended. We ate vegetables from the garden my mother tended. And when our roof leaked, which it most certainly did, my father fixed it with his own hands. Unless—” A smile. “—unless he was lucky enough to shame one of his more agile parishioners into doing the job.”

  Pensively smiling, he waited for the laugh, then quickly became serious.

  “It’s been almost fifty years since my father preached his last sermon. Like many of you men, rising from humble beginnings, I’m proud to say that, in my own way, I’ve made my mark in the world during those fifty years. My father, I believe, would be proud of me. He would also be amazed if he could see how the miracle of modern electronics allows me to reach many times more people on a single Sunday than he reached in a lifetime of working for Christ.

  “I often think about the way this country has changed during those fifty years. I often think about how the world has changed, too. Much of what I see disturbs me profoundly. So I often wonder what I can do. I wonder how I can help. I wonder how I can strengthen the forces I believe in—and I wonder how I can fight the forces that are bent on destroying this great country.” He paused, gripped the lectern more firmly. The blue eyes were sharp-focused now, the voice was stern.

  “Fifty years—from the thirties to the eighties. What has happened, what changes have been wrought across the face of the world during those fifty years? Each of you would, I’m sure, answer that question differently. But all of you, I think, would agree on one essential premise—” He allowed a long, compelling moment to pass as he swept the audience with eyes that had come alive, flashing an orator’s challenge. “You will agree that during those fifty years, the forces of godlessness, of the Antichrist, have grown steadily stronger. Until, today, the United States stands virtually alone, surrounded by a host of mortal enemies. From beyond our shores, we are besieged by an unholy alliance of Muslim fanatics and atheistic Communists. From within, our society is being ravaged by drugs. Promiscuousness and perversion are corrupting our youth. Behind the shameful guise of political equality, liberal materialists are attacking the foundations of our society, shackling our God-given freedoms, questioning the very Bible that is the bedrock of Christianity.”

  He paused, sipped from a water goblet, measured the audience with a covertly calculating glance. He’d gotten their attention, but he hadn’t aroused them. He’d expected it, of course, expected this initial resistance. By definition, this was the toughest audience he’d ever faced—the richest, the most powerful, therefore the toughest. “For nothing you get nothing,” his father said so often, one of his most serviceable bromides. Over the rim of his goblet, Holloway glanced at Flournoy. The general manager was watching him with noncommittal eyes, Flournoy’s habitual I-told-you-so expression.

  Always, the pessimists of the world would wait for the adventurous among them to falter, finally fall. The bold died in battle, clucked over by the pessimists—and buried by them, too.

  Holloway placed the goblet on the table, drew a deep breath, and began again. He spoke deliberately, returning to the low, rich end of the register.

  “I could expand on the dimensions of the peril that surrounds us. Looking abroad, I could quote casualty rates from the far-flung fronts, where we are battling the Communists. At home, I could remind you of the shameful barricades that we have been compelled to erect around the White House as we guard against the deranged suicide bombers who would gladly die for Islam. I could remind you of the laws that our congressmen have enacted that allow unborn babies to be murdered. Others in Washington have tried to take our weapons from us—while criminals can buy guns on any street corner. I could quote statistics proving that, in the United States, the illicit drug industry’s gross sales exceed General Motors’s. In some parts of the country, the divorce rate exceeds the marriage rate. Homosexuality flourishes—and threatens to loose upon us a plague that could rival the Black Death.”

  He broke off, sipped again from the glass. Yes, they were rustling, quickening, exchanging nods of approval, making small, significant noises. As the champagne continued to flow, the beast that lay waiting in the thicket of every crowd was beginning to stir. And it was with the beast that he’d come to do business.

  “I could go on with this grim chronicle,” he said, once more speaking slowly, in a low, compelling register. “I could add to this shameful litany of disasters past and present. But the truth is, I didn’t come here this evening to wring my hands.
Because I don’t despair. Far from it. In fact, I’ve come here tonight to report to you on a miracle—a God-given miracle that has been burgeoning in this country for many years, a miracle that, properly nurtured, can save us all.

  “I’m talking, my friends, about the rise of religion in America.” A pause, a final full, significant sweep of their attentive, upturned faces. Yes, they were with him now. The beast was finally aroused.

  “I’m talking about those millions upon millions in this country who turn to their TV sets every Sunday—and who, during the week, open their hearts—and their checkbooks. And I’m here to tell you that, with the proper guidance, these millions can save us all. They are citizen soldiers, ready and willing to march under Christ’s banner, ready to endure any privation, pay any price for the privilege of serving. We spoke earlier of the riches generated by the drug trade. Well, praise God, I can report to you that the contributions of these millions of the faithful rival the earnings of those who seek to destroy us with drugs.

  “But, more important than debit-credit calculations, vastly more important, is the fact that these millions of fundamentalist Christians, these soldiers for Christ, are true believers. They see what needs to be done—” A short, meaningful pause. “And they’re willing to do it, willing to do their duty.” Another uncompromising pause, reinforced by the full force of the Holloway presence: a modern-day prophet standing majestically tall, solemnly exhorting the faithful:

  “These millions constitute a vast reservoir of potential power—a vast untapped reservoir.” A final pause. Then: “And that, gentlemen, is the subject I propose to discuss with you here tonight—that power, and how it can be tapped. Because I believe, I devoutly believe, that God has provided us with the means of harnessing that power and converting it to votes. And these votes, combined, could be America’s salvation.