“More than half your life,” Holloway said, “you’ve been with me.
“It’s been the best half, Austin. You know that.”
“Yes—” Gravely, Holloway turned to face the other man. “Yes, I’m sure that’s true. You wouldn’t say it, if it weren’t true, Lloyd.” He stepped to a nearby armchair, sank into it. On the bedside table, the clock read almost one o’clock. Tomorrow—Friday—would be a busy day, beginning with the news conference at eleven.
“You’re the only one I can trust to tell me the truth, Lloyd—the whole truth. Gloria tells me the truth, but it’s always tainted with rancor, because part of her hates me. Flournoy tells me the truth, if it suits his purposes. Otherwise, he lies. And Elton—” He shook his head. “Elton is blinded. And Marvella—” He paused, searching for the word. “Marvella suffers too much to think about what’s true and what isn’t true.
“So it comes down to you and me, Lloyd. It comes down to history—to all those years. All night, I’ve been thinking about those years. I’ve been thinking about myself, thirty-five years ago. I wasn’t even thirty, when I heard that you might be paroled. Many times I’ve wondered what it was in that newspaper story that made me feel I must talk to you. It wasn’t just because I needed a bodyguard. I could’ve hired a hundred men for a job like that.”
“You needed more than a bodyguard, Austin.”
“And, God, I got more than a bodyguard. And I got more than a friend, too. I’ve discovered that friendship—protestations of friendship—come pretty cheap. But when you stood between me and that crazy man with the gun, in Knoxville—” Marveling, he shook his head. Then: “You’re the only one of us who really believes in God, Lloyd. You’ve killed human beings. You’ve killed before I knew you, and—God forgive us—you’ve killed afterward, for me. But you’re the only real Christian among us, the only one who hasn’t been corrupted. You know what’s right—and you know what’s wrong. And, most importantly—” Holloway paused, preparing himself to measure the effect of the words he’d come to say: “Most importantly, once you’ve determined what’s right, decided what must be done, you do it. You do your duty, regardless of the consequences.” Looking at the other man, he allowed another carefully calculated beat to pass as he gazed deep into Mitchell’s eyes. “That’s rare, Lloyd. That kind of dedication, that magnificent disregard of consequences in the service of what’s right, it’s very rare. Someone like you, a man who truly disdains worldly goods, disdains the trappings of the ego, of vanity, you’re unique among men. That sounds overblown, I know—highfalutin, as my father used to say. But I mean it. And you know I mean it. I’ve been preaching for so long, singing for my supper, that sometimes I don’t know whether I’m simply talking, or whether I’m preaching. These lines get blurred as time goes on. But you know, Lloyd. You can recognize the truth, recognize your duty. And that’s the whole point, the whole reason I’m here—because you know what’s right. And you know what’s wrong, too. You’re my conscience.”
Still sitting on the edge of the bed, his face impassive, his eyes steady on the other man’s face, Mitchell made no reply. If he was aware of what must surely follow, he gave no sign.
“Sometimes,” Holloway said, “I can hardly believe it, what’s happened to me. Neither of my parents finished high school. Except for the Bible, I don’t think my father ever read a book all the way through. My sister married a construction worker who beat her regularly. Until my father had a stroke, and the money, such as it was, quit coming in, I gave no thought to preaching. I was fifteen years old then, and my only thoughts were for girls. It was hard times, in 1937, especially in our town, with the lumber mill on short hours, and the main street half closed down. So, on Sunday, with much trepidation, I drove our Model A to the meeting place, and I eulogized my father—who I despised, really. I didn’t have the faintest idea what I’d say, or how I’d say it. And I was scared. God, I’ve never been so scared, before or since. But I got up on that stage, like I’d seen my father do, and I put my father’s Bible on the pulpit, open, like I’d seen him do. Then I grabbed that pulpit as hard as I could, and I lifted up my face to the heavens, and I closed my eyes, and I waited for a miracle.
“And it happened. How—why—I’ll never know. The words came from somewhere. To this day, I don’t know where they came from, or why. But when I needed them, they were there. And they’re still there, thank God. Sometimes, especially the last year or two, when I walk out to that pulpit, and face those cameras, it seems to me that the words will fail me. And I suppose they will someday. I suppose it’s inevitable. And when that happens—” Reflectively, he shook his head. “When that happens, if it ever does, I doubt that I’ll be ready. Because I’m famous now. And I have power, too. I discovered that tonight, discovered how much power I have. And if I’m honest with myself—honest with you—then I’ll admit that I’m addicted to that power. Right from the first, I was addicted, right from that first Sunday when I looked out over those faces. I can still remember that Sunday. I don’t think I was conscious of what I was saying. I think I just stood there, holding to that pulpit, with my eyes cast up to heaven. I opened my mind, and opened my mouth, and hoped for a miracle, as I said. And then, when the words did come, and I ventured to look down over the congregation, I could tell they were moved. And right then, right from that very first moment, I became aware that I could control other human beings. Through words, nothing more than words, I could rouse them, make them believe what I wanted them to believe, make them do what I wanted them to do. Words. Not armies. Not the power of money. Just words, and ideas.” As if he were still marveling at the memory of that first meeting, Holloway sat silent for a moment, head slightly bowed. Then, softly ironic, he said, “So now I’m famous. World famous. And, thanks to Herbert, I’m rich. I’ve got money, and I’ve got property. There’s the Austin Holloway University, and the Temple of Light—and those two satellites up there, solely owned. Not to mention the stocks and the bonds and the other real estate. And not to mention, either, those fat cats at the banquet tonight. I’ve been reading upturned faces for a lot of years, now, Lloyd. And I can tell you, I can absolutely guarantee you, that those fat cats will give anything—anything—if we’ll take them along with us. They’ve got the money, and they want the power—want what I’ve got. And, unless I’m very much mistaken, they’ll pay anything, do anything, to have their way with the voters in this country.”
Holloway let another moment of solemn silence lengthen. Then, speaking directly to Mitchell now, full-face, he said, “All that’s on one side. Everything. And then—” He drew a deep, regretful breath. “And then there’s Elton. There’s Elton and his golden cord.”
As the words fell between them, Mitchell realized that he was sitting straighter on the bed, unconsciously bracing himself.
“I’ve just come from Elton, Lloyd—just come from his room. He was sleeping—as soundly, as innocently as a baby sleeps. I sat beside his bed, and I talked to him. I don’t think I’ve done that three times in my whole life, Lloyd—sat beside him and talked, whether or not he heard me. And I was aware of that, aware that I’d failed him. It was one of those moments when, suddenly, your life is reduced to its essentials. I could look back over fifty years as if they were no more than fifty minutes, beginning on that Sunday after my daddy’s stroke. And I realized that from that first Sunday, my life was one long, elaborate illusion. I was an actor with only one part to play. I was one person when I got up onstage on Sunday, and another person during the week. I’d preach against the sins of the flesh, and the next night, in another town, I’d be in bed with a stranger. I’d preach against avarice while I schemed how to get rich. And there was the other thing, too, the thing only we know about, Lloyd. Just you and me.”
“It had to be done, Austin. It had to be done. We both knew it, knew it had to be done.”
“But you did it, Lloyd. I only talked about it. We prayed about it, side by side, on our knees. We prayed to God. It was the last time I
did it, the last time I prayed to God.” Shaking his head, as if to escape the sudden, searing pain of memory, he lapsed into exhausted silence. Then: “I prayed, but you did it. You lifted up your hand. You struck the blow.”
“I’d do it again, Austin. You know that.” Mitchell paused. Then, speaking very deliberately, he said, “I will do it again. If that’s what you want—if that’s what has to be done—then I’ll do it again.”
Holloway sat motionless for a moment, head low, body slack, hands listless in his lap. Then, as if he were lifting an impossible weight, he raised his head to meet the other man’s calm, steady gaze. In the pale half-light from the window, Holloway’s eyes were haunted; his face was shrunken on itself, suddenly an agonized death’s-head.
“It has to be done, Lloyd. We both know it, know it has to be done. But this time—” Hopelessly, he shook his head, closed his eyes, felt his voice thicken with the first genuine emotion he’d experienced in many years. “This time, we can’t pray.”
27
“JESUS CHRIST,” FRIEDMAN GRATED, “it’s Friday. In my experience, judges play golf or go to the track on Saturday. Then comes Sunday. And Holloway’s show at the Cow Palace, I happen to know, goes from one o’clock to two o’clock. And then they’re gone. By five o’clock Sunday, Elton could be in Los Angeles. We’ll forward our stuff to Los Angeles, and the FBI will do the same. Which is to say, in plain words, that because we can’t get warrants, we’ll be screwed out of the bust of the decade, maybe the bust of the century, for all we know. And all because the people at City Hall think that Holloway is some kind of a saint. You want some more coffee?”
Hastings shook his head, then said, “I’m glad you mentioned City Hall. Because that’s where the problem is, you know. The chief serves at the pleasure of the politicians.”
“As far as I’m concerned,” Friedman retorted, “they’re all politicians.” Glowering, he made his way to the cafeteria’s coffee urn, refilled his Styrofoam cup, returned to the table. Even before he sat down, Friedman began to talk: “We’ve got everything but an eyewitness to the actual crime. We’ve got Dancer Browne, and we’ve got—what’s her name, from last night?”
“Angie Forster.”
“Yeah. And we’ve got Amy MacFarland’s room sealed tight and guarded. Everything’s covered.”
“We don’t have the gold cord, though.”
“That’s true. But if we could get his fingerprints and the clothes he wore on Tuesday, we could put him in that room. I know it. I feel it. And then there’s everything the FBI’s got. It might not be admissible for trial, but it sure as hell should get us warrants.”
“When I think about what happened last night,” Hastings said, “hammering on that goddamn door while Mitchell was destroying evidence and then hustling Elton out the back way—” He clenched his right fist, struck it lightly on the Formica tabletop. “I’m going to get Canelli, and haul Mitchell’s ass down here for questioning. I’m going to lean on the bastard. Really lean on him.”
“Why don’t you wait until tomorrow?” Friedman said. “Wait and see what happens tonight. The way it appears, Elton isn’t controllable. I mean, if they could keep him in the hotel, I’m sure they’d do it. So the assumption is, all they can do is follow him, protect him from himself. That’s what Mitchell was doing last night. Maybe the same thing will happen tonight or tomorrow night. After all, he’s been out three times in four days—Monday night, Tuesday night, and Thursday night. The second time, he got his rocks off—killed Amy MacFarland, got away clean. So then, Wednesday and Thursday, we started poking around, putting the pressure on him. You talked to him, and I’m sure they’ve talked to him—Gloria, and her father, or whoever. So then, instead of lying low, like any reasonable serial killer would, he goes out last night, presumably to try his luck again. He missed. He’s frustrated. So maybe tonight he’ll go out again and give it another shot.”
“That’s no reason I can’t interrogate Mitchell, though. For that matter, we might be better off if we kept him locked up overnight, according to your theory. If Mitchell hadn’t been there last night, maybe we’d have Elton in a cell right now.”
Sipping his coffee, Friedman considered the point, then nodded. “That’s a possibility, I suppose.”
“So what’d you think? Should I go for it? Bring Mitchell in?”
“Why don’t we see what happens tonight? Why don’t we put on extra people tonight at the St. Francis? If it doesn’t work out tonight, we can bring Mitchell down here tomorrow. I mean, he’s not going anywhere until Sunday, we know that. Meanwhile, we can keep up the pressure for the warrants on Elton.”
Without enthusiasm, Hastings shrugged. “Whatever you say. You’re the strategist.” He glanced at the wall clock. “Maybe I’ll have some coffee after all. Want anything else?”
“Thanks, no.”
28
COVERTLY, BENTON GLANCED AT his watch, then looked at Holloway. Simultaneously, both men nodded. Benton took a last sip of coffee, checked his French cuffs, touched the knot in his tie, buttoned his jacket, rose, and half stepped to a portable lectern that had been placed on the head table. He cleared his throat, smiled, waited for those assembled to turn toward him and fall silent. During the shifting of chairs and the businesslike riffling of notebook pages, two TV cameramen looked to their equipment while three photographers looked to their Nikons. Altogether, the audience numbered twenty-six, a few more than projected.
“My name is Charles Benton,” he began. “I’ve been with Austin Holloway for eight years. And in those eight years I’ve learned that after I’ve made sure that the reporters have been wined and dined, the wisest thing I can do is what I’m about to do now, which is introduce my friend Austin Holloway—and then step aside.” As he said it, he turned to Holloway, smiling as he gestured with a full, courtly sweep of his arm.
To a perfunctory scattering of applause, Holloway rose, stepped to the lectern, seemed to smile intimately at each of the reporters in turn.
“First,” he said, “I’d like to invite each of you to our service on Sunday. Your press passes are all you need to get in, and the front row’ll be reserved for the press, as always. And let me say, before I forget, that we welcome picture taking—before, during, and after, whatever’s your pleasure. And now—” The famous smile widened, the famous voice dropped one warm, welcoming octave. “And now, I’m at your service, ladies and gentlemen. Please—” He raised a hand, as if to anoint them. “Please, ask anything at all. We’re all friends here.”
Immediately, three hands were raised. Holloway gestured to a young woman who was with one TV cameraman. She rose, raised her jaw aggressively, and spoke in a high, clear, assertive voice:
“Can you give us some idea of your history—your background? Are you a theologian, a graduate of a seminary?”
His smile was touched with conspiratorial, tolerant good humor, suggesting that they shared a playful secret, he and this competitive woman with her smug mouth and cold eyes.
“No,” he answered, “I didn’t go to college. I come from humble origins, I’m afraid—proud, pious origins, but humble, nonetheless. My father was a minister, you see, sprung from the soil of the Middle West, from farming folk. What he learned about religion, he learned from the Bible—from the Bible, and from God. Because my father was a simple, unsophisticated man. He believed—deeply believed—that if he listened long enough, and hard enough, he could hear God speak. He had faith, you see—a deep, abiding faith. And I submit to you that faith like that is what we lack in this day and age. So I’m proud to say that I share my father’s simple faith. And that’s why I’ve come here to San Francisco. I’m carrying a message. It’s the same message my father carried, and it comes from God.”
The young woman smirked. “Or so you believe.”
“Yes, madam—” Gravely, Holloway inclined his silvery head. “So I believe. So I deeply, devoutly believe.” He let a beat pass, watched her pantomime a supercilious disbelief as she shook
her head, resumed her seat. Then he turned to a middle-aged man, gray-haired, conservatively dressed.
“I’m Dick Frankle,” the man said, “from the AP. Last night, you hosted a dinner for some of the most powerful men in America, here in San Francisco. It’s my understanding that the possibility of forming a third political party was discussed. Would you care to comment, sir?”
“I’m afraid I can’t comment directly on what we discussed last night. However—” He paused to consider, quickly reviewing how much he intended to tell—and not tell. “However, I can tell you—I’m delighted to tell you—that we reached a remarkable degree of unanimity last night. Nothing was formally decided. No commitments were made, no committees were formed. But we agreed—unanimously agreed, I think—that America stands at the crossroads. We agree that, on the one hand, America is singularly blessed. Our wealth is immense. Our energies, even though they may be depleted by drugs, and immorality, and irresolution, are nevertheless prodigious. But—” He paused, swept the closed, indifferent faces with eyes that both challenged them and calculated the true extent of their cynical disaffection. “But we agreed, last night, that in the process of becoming the richest, most powerful nation in the world, this country has lost its way. We’ve turned our back on God. Consequently, we’re destroying this country from within. Drug use in America is reaching epidemic proportions. Illicit sex is glorified on every magazine rack, celebrated in Hollywood movies that, in our fathers’ time, would never have been made. Even television has sold out to the pornographers. Homosexuality is running rampant. And, consequently, the family—the cornerstone of every civilization since time began—is disintegrating. In California, marriages barely outnumber divorces. Now—” He lowered his voice to a harder, more worldly note: “Now, this process—this decay—isn’t irreversible. True, it’s far advanced, grievously far advanced. The hour is late, and time is therefore short. Because our enemies are watching, make no mistake about that. They are watching, and they are waiting—barbarians, clamoring at the gates. However, even though time is running against us, we believe—I believe, and my guests last night believe—that it’s not too late for America. We believe it’s still possible to get our message through to the people in this country who really care—who really want to help.”
The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 16