“I’m speaking, of course, about the miracle of electronics—of television, and radio, and video cassettes. And I’m telling you that we’re only seeing the start of this miracle. A technological revolution is about to explode—a computer-driven communications breakthrough that will, literally, unite us all into one vast electronic family.
“And those of us that are ready will reap the rewards. We will gain control of America. We will send our message to Christ’s disenfranchised millions. We will show them the danger—and tell them how they can help. We’ll show them how, united, they can transform America. And where a stronger, revitalized America leads, the free world will follow.
“A dream, you say. Oh, yes—” The handsome head gravely inclined. “Oh, yes—a dream. But I tell you, my friends, that it is a practical dream—a dream that, on election day, will be fulfilled.”
He paused, glanced at Flournoy, his eternal barometer. Flournoy was nodding—incredibly, almost smiling. The contest, then, was there for the winning. It had now come time for the salesman’s close, a time to come to terms with this particular audience, on their particular terms.
“As I look around the room and try to read your faces, the message I seem to see is that the rhetoric you’ve heard here tonight has been interesting—and the food is good and the champagne of satisfactory vintage.” Briefly, engagingly, he smiled: a man-to-man, entrepreneur-to-entrepreneur smile. “But you are men who deal in specifics. In politics, of course, rhetoric is essential. But the men behind the politicians, men like you, need more. You need facts and figures. Most of you head large corporations. You deal in numbers. So, to conclude my message to you, I offer some numbers.” From an inside pocket he withdrew a single 5x7 card. From another pocket, he withdrew a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses.
“Many of you, I’m sure, read the recent This Week article on TV evangelism. And, of course, I read it, too—” He swept the audience with another man-to-man smile. “And I was gratified, naturally, to see that, in terms of viewers, I have a comfortable lead. Which I hope never changes. Leonard Bagley was next, and then George Fisher. Five of us, altogether, reaching probably sixty million people, every week. Now, that’s a lot of people. And it doesn’t include many millions more who watch some of my less famous colleagues. It’s a lot of people—and a lot of money coming in each week, too, let’s be honest. Since This Week is aimed at men like you, the country’s business leaders, the article dealt with the millions—billions—that’re involved. They made the point that all of us, and particularly the top five evangelists, head large organizations that are very expert at generating capital flow. They were kind enough to say that my organization, particularly, could teach both the Democrats and the Republicans a little something about fund raising and computerized mailings. And I must tell you—” The easy, fraternal smile returned. “I must tell you that I concur, absolutely.
“The article went on to talk about the Christian Fellowship Network. They described how it works, how the CFN, which I head, owns two communications satellites.” Still genially smiling, he waited for the spontaneous, predictable murmurs of polite surprise to subside before he mischievously added, “And those satellites, incidentally, are paid for. We’ve got the pink slips.” Another pause for the appreciative chuckles. Then, more seriously, he said, “For those of you who haven’t read the article, you’ll find a copy of it in the press kit we’ll take the liberty of giving you when you leave. So you’ll be up-to-date. However, the news isn’t in the press kit—not in profit and loss statistics, or audience growth projections. The real news is that religion in America is alive and well. More than that, religion is gathering a vast, irresistible momentum. A tidal wave is developing, my friends. It’s a wave that, properly channeled, will sweep everything before it—a wave that will sweep a government out of office with an ease that future generations will regard with amazement and awe. Historians will look back on the eighties in America as the time when Christians—born-again Christians—transformed the face of this great nation forevermore.
“But without direction, without leadership, the millions of believers are nothing more than a mob, a giant without a brain. And leadership itself is ineffective without the machinery, the technology that’s needed to reach out and touch each individual, each true believer.
“Well—” Holloway surveyed the faces before him, each one attentive, expectant. This was the time to wrap it all up, make the pitch, sit down, accept the applause that would most certainly reward him. The beast had been engaged and deftly tamed. This was the time to put rhetoric aside, the time for calm, concise candor, the salesman’s close.
“Well, you know where I’m going with this. I’m telling you that the second American revolution is about to begin—the revolution for Christ. I’m telling you that the Christian Fellowship Network offers the means of catalyzing that revolution. And, yes, I’m offering myself, as leader.”
At the pause, precisely on cue, the applause began—and swelled—and continued to swell. Signifying that, by the simple act of clapping their hands in common, these men were uniting. They were committed. Together, they were committed.
Still standing, Holloway slowly, gravely bowed his head, humble as he accepted tribute from this audience of the elite. He waited for the applause to die, then raised his head. His smile was self-effacing, as shy as a small boy’s.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you—thank you. I hope that, in the months and years to come, we’ll be working closely together, exchanging ideas, marching side by side in the front ranks of Christ’s invincible legions.” He paused, smiled benevolently, then said, “I would like to close with a piece of news—which I offer as an article of faith, since the negotiations are still tentative, still secret. But I feel that I want to offer something that will bind us together, something tangible, a promise for the future. So, in that spirit of fellowship, I tell you now that, yes, the rumors you may have been hearing are true. The CFN is about to conclude a takeover of one of our three major networks. I’m sure you know which one, so there’s no need for me to be specific. But our lawyers tell us that, within a month’s time, the takeover will be concluded. And when that time comes, I’ll be in touch with many of you. Because—” Benevolently, he smiled. “Because, needless to say, we’ll be forming a new board of directors. And I hope that, as we look to the future together, many of you here tonight will be willing to serve.”
22
THE BEDSIDE LAMP HAD a three-way bulb. He twisted the switch. The lamp was at its brightest. He twisted the switch again. Darkness engulfed him. Another click, and the lamp was soft-lit, on low. He straightened, looked carefully at all four corners of the room. Yes, the light was exactly right. It was essential that the lighting be right, neither too low nor too high. Christ had certainly known about the importance of light. And the pope, who certainly held dominion over millions of candles—the pope knew, too. And his father, who hired men who mixed lights for the cameras, producing crisscrossed stars of Bethlehem on demand, with filters, for the cameras—his father knew, too.
Like father, like son.
Or unlike, really.
Because this light was fit for the sepulcher, not for the cameras. In this light, therefore, he would be invisible to the cameras.
Therefore safe. Undiscovered, therefore safe.
So now the ceremony could begin. He could now approach the receptacle of containment and concealment, the altar disguised as a bureau. Earlier, he’d cleared off the top, which was the means of conversion. The maids, his mother, Gloria—because of the conventionally conceived clutter, consummating in conversion, none of them realized the real existence of the altar, or the receptacle beneath. They’d only seen the bureau. As planned. Precisely as planned. Therefore the receptacle was still safe, still inviolate.
So he was standing before the altar, ready to accept the instrument of deliverance. But first he must gather himself, focus himself, unite himself with the eternal forcefield that would enfold hi
m, protect him, guide him. He must stand motionless, hands at his sides, head bowed, eyes closed.
And, yes, he could feel it beginning: a small, whisper-soft stirring, the sound of eternity’s breath upon him, calling him, commanding him. Now, eyes still closed, he must concentrate, must listen for the shadow of the voices—first the shadow, then the substance.
Yes, they were drawing closer. He could feel them beside him, commanding him, God’s emissaries, messengers from heaven. Without them, he was helpless, a body without a soul, a husk of flesh and bone, nothing more. Because it was the consciousness that counted—first the commandment, then the consciousness.
Sometimes they didn’t come. And sometimes they came, and drew closer—and then faded away. He’d never known why they deserted him, but sometimes they did. And he would be left alone, empty, helpless.
But now, tonight, the strength of their presence was strong. Even though strangers were watching, enemies, their presence was strong, guiding him, protecting him. Because, yes, with his eyes still closed, he could feel the illumination beginning, expanding his consciousness, allowing them to enter. First the celestial expansion, then the terrestrial contraction as, yes, the transformation was complete. Now, very cautiously, he could open his eyes. This, he’d learned, was the crucial part. Because if he saw them—any of them, anywhere—then failure was certain. Because if he saw them, externalized, then they could see him, internalized, and he was helpless to act.
Still with his eyes open, slowly, he pivoted, searching everywhere, every corner of the softly lit room. Yes, he was alone; the transformation was complete. One step brought him within arm’s reach of the altar. The drawer was extending itself, opening. And he could see his hands, first lowering, then raising, holding the instrument of God’s commandment, the sacred golden cord.
As Hastings pushed through the brass-framed revolving doors and stood surveying the now familiar main lobby of the St. Francis, he saw Canelli urgently signaling with his eyes to the elevators. Following Canelli’s line of sight, Hastings saw Elton Holloway walking diagonally across the lobby, bound for the revolving doors. Nodding to Canelli, Hastings moved aside, turning his back to the suspect. The message: Hastings would join Canelli, who’d certainly alerted the other three men on duty at the hotel’s other entrances, told them the suspect was on the move. But as Elton Holloway drew closer, Hastings saw Canelli’s eyes move urgently in another direction. Following this second silent signal, Hastings saw Lloyd Mitchell, about twenty feet behind Elton Holloway Obviously, Mitchell meant to follow Elton. Canelli was standing motionless, shoulders slightly raised, hands slightly spread, mutely perplexed, awaiting orders. To signal that they must follow Mitchell, at least for now, Hastings stopped, stood still, let Elton enter the revolving doors, with Mitchell closing the distance between them. Hastings let Mitchell enter the revolving doors, then stepped briskly forward, nodding for Canelli to do the same.
Mitchell stepped clear of the revolving doors, joined the pedestrian stream. The time was a little after ten o’clock, the same time Elton had gone out Tuesday night.
Was Elton carrying the gold cord, concealed?
Had it been a mistake for Gloria to replace the cord in Elton’s drawer?
In the street, outside the hotel, Elton was vulnerable to arrest. If he were arrested, and the cord was found …
Arrested for what? For walking steadily along, eyes front, dressed like a typical tourist?
Covertly Mitchell glanced over his shoulder. Hastings and the other one—the big, good-natured Italian detective—they were following along behind. Conspicuously following, making no effort at concealment.
What were they thinking, the two homicide detectives? What was their strategy?
Ahead, at the corner of Powell and Geary, Elton was turning right. He did not glance over his shoulder, did not slacken his steady, leg-locked arm-stiffened automaton’s gait. He could be a soldier on parade: an insane soldier, marching to his own destruction.
Onward Christian soldiers …
It was Austin’s favorite hymn. At the banquet tonight, that would be Austin’s theme, the recruitment of Christian soldiers, following Austin to victory over the Antichrist.
Rich, powerful Christian soldiers. Some of them fierce Christian soldiers. But even the rich ones, even the powerful ones, and the fierce ones, all of them would follow along behind Austin. Because Austin had the power. Always, ever since childhood, Austin had had the power.
For thirty-five years, they’d been together, he and Austin. So that now they shared the same thoughts, acted with the same will, the two of them. Where one man ended, the other man began. Often, poetically, Austin had put the thought into words, that they were inseparable. And the poetic words were true: quiet words, meant only for him.
Remembering the magic of the words, Mitchell realized that he was touching the butt of the .45 automatic he carried in a shoulder holster slung beneath his left arm. Twice, during those years, he’d saved Austin’s life, payment in part for his own life, returned to him by Austin, so long ago.
One man, the second man, he’d killed to protect Austin from certain death.
The other man …
At the thought of the other man, the first man, he blinked, realized that his stride had faltered. How long had it been since he’d killed that first man? How long had it been since he allowed himself to think about it?
The second man, yes. Often, he thought of the second man. The scene of the second man’s death was proudly, vividly etched in memory, a fragment of time that had changed his life forever—his life, Austin’s life, countless other lives, all in the moment it took to draw a gun and fire it. He could still hear the sound of the shot, still smell the gunpowder. And he could still hear Flournoy speaking as they stood shoulder to shoulder, staring down at the corpse of the maniac who’d come to the foot of the stage, drawn a revolver, aimed at Austin, fired a single round into the pulpit just three inches below the pulpit’s walnut rim.
“You can kill,” Flournoy had said. “Thank God, you can kill.”
“This is really crazy,” Canelli muttered, swearing fervently as he dodged a drunken man who wore a red Shriner’s fez with a golden tassel. “Mitchell’s following him. And we’re following Mitchell.”
“Mitchell’s on our side,” Hastings said. “Nothing’s going to happen—nobody’ll get killed—so long as he’s there.”
“But I thought we wanted something to happen.”
“We need a warrant. And it’s basically a political decision—Chief Dwyer’s decision—whether we get one. If we collar Elton trying to hit another whore, it’ll get the chief’s attention. Otherwise, I think Dwyer would just as soon pass, let them leave town.”
“It’s crazy,” Canelli repeated. “Crazy. Anybody else, with a good eyeball identification, and with what the FBI’s got for background, he’d be locked up. Now. Right now. But just because he’s Austin Holloway’s son, he’s walking around. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I’m not arguing with you, Canelli. I’m just telling you how it’s coming down. You want to talk to the chief, make an appointment.”
“Well, I think it’s crazy.” Canelli considered, then said thoughtfully, “Jeez, maybe the chief’s an Austin Holloway fan. Ever think of that, Lieutenant?”
“Let’s get a little closer,” Hastings said, picking up the pace. “And check your radio, will you?” As he spoke, he sharply shook his head at a panhandler who wore a bedraggled cowboy hat and a greasy poncho. The two detectives were walking south on Mason Street, where the Tenderloin began—where anything was for sale. Just ahead, in the next block, Hastings saw the red neon sign identifying the Bayside Hotel. And, yes, there was Dancer Browne’s Continental, parked in its accustomed spot. Now Elton Holloway was within a hundred feet of the hotel, almost directly across the street from Dancer Browne’s car. A black hooker was making her approach. The suspect glanced at her once, shook his head, continued walking, eyes fixed rigidly straight ahea
d. He was passing in front of the hotel. Behind him, Mitchell was walking faster now, closing the distance between them.
“The radio’s okay,” Canelli said. Adding ruefully: “For now, anyhow, it’s okay. Personally, I think the guy who buys our electronics stuff should be demoted, whoever he is. I mean, the surveillance stuff only works about half the time, it seems like.”
“I think the problem’s maintenance,” Hastings answered. “The equipment’s the best available, as far as I know.”
They crossed O’Farrell Street shoulder to shoulder, dodging the slow-moving cars.
“I wonder why he isn’t looking back?” Canelli said. “He must know we’re here. That’s the plan, according to Lieutenant Friedman. He’s supposed to know we’re following him. Right? We’re supposed to be putting pressure on him. Right?”
Hastings nodded. “Right.”
“Then why isn’t he looking back?” Canelli complained.
“Because he’s crazy,” Hastings answered.
Once more, Mitchell glanced over his shoulder. The two policemen were closer now. And ahead, Elton was talking to another whore, this one a white woman. She was dressed head to foot in skintight black leather. Her hair was bleached white and stood out from her head. Her face was grotesquely painted, eyes shadowed an iridescent blue, mouth smeared bright red. Her smile was obscene. Allowing the sidewalk crowds to break around him, Mitchell stood motionless. A half block behind, the two policemen were standing in front of a shop window, conspicuously staring at the display. The light from the window bathed their faces in a garish fluorescent blue. Now Elton and the woman were moving together toward Market Street, three blocks away. The woman was talking, smiling with her crimson-painted mouth, gesturing with a bracelet-bangled hand. Elton was saying nothing, walking with his empty eyes fixed straight ahead.
The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 13