Ritual

by Graham Masterton

  ‘Do you think we ought to ask him what’s wrong?’ the girl student asked, in a stage whisper.

  ‘I don’t think so. This isn’t exactly Dorking, is it?’

  He knocked at 501 and Robyn immediately opened the door. ‘Charlie, my God, I didn’t expect to hear from you for days. What’s happened? You look terrible!’

  Charlie limped into the room and sat down heavily on the bed. It was only a single room, decorated in ginger and mustard, with a bed, a television, a crowded bathroom, and a view of Canal Street. Robyn closed the door and then came to kneel down beside Charlie and take hold of his hand.

  ‘Charlie, what happened?’

  ‘They were on to me all the time. They’ve been keeping tabs on us all the way from Connecticut.’

  ‘Your hand––’

  ‘Uh-uh. Don’t touch. It’s still throbbing.’

  ‘But what happened?’

  Charlie took a deep breath. For some inexplicable reason he was close to tears. It was probably delayed shock. ‘They pretended that they were fooled. They made me go through a little Célèstine initiation ceremony. I had to cut my finger off. Then they cooked it and made me eat it.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ said Robyn. She ran her hand through Charlie’s tousled hair, and held him close. ‘Oh, my God, Charlie.’

  ‘I could use a drink,’ Charlie told her. ‘Do they have room service here?’

  ‘Sure they do. It’s a little slow, but willing. What do you want? Don’t you think I ought to take you to the hospital? You don’t want that finger to go septic.’

  ‘A Scotch first, with a Michelob Lite. Then the hospital, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Robyn shakily, and kissed him, and went to the phone to call room service.

  ‘I don’t know why they let me go,’ said Charlie. ‘They had me locked up in a room on the top floor of that building. They even took away my clothes, and told me they were burned. Mme Musette was there. She kept coming in and trying to persuade me that my life had no meaning and that I ought to join the Célèstines to save my soul. Then for no reason at all, she came up this morning and gave me my clothes back, and left the door unlocked.’

  Robyn knelt down beside him again. ‘Maybe they decided you were beyond conversion.’

  Charlie gave her a wry smile. ‘They believe in the second coming. That’s what all this cannibalism is supposed to be leading up to. They think that if you eat yourself, and then somebody else eats what’s left of you, then that person acquires your soul. So when they eat themselves, and somebody else eats what’s left of them, two souls get passed on, and so forth, until they reach the divine number of a thousand times a thousand.’

  ‘That’s what that leaflet was all about,’ said Robyn.

  Charlie nodded. ‘The last of the Last Suppers. The final communion. And according to Mme Musette, it takes place Friday, in the town of Acadia. They’re all going to be there, all the Célèstines.’

  Robyn looked at Charlie closely. His eyes were brimming with tears. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there? Tell me.’

  Charlie swallowed. ‘It’s Martin. I guess I should be glad that they haven’t harmed him yet. But the way it’s worked out, he’s going to be the thousandth thousandth soul. “Great good fortune”, that’s what Mme Musette called it. On Friday, her husband is going to kill him and eat him, and that supposedly is going to make M. Musette into a fitting vessel for the second coming.’

  ‘I don’t think I understand that,’ frowned Robyn.

  ‘Me neither. The whole Goddamned lot of them are only playing with half a deck. But the trouble is they believe in it. They believe in it so Goddamned sincerely that they’ve even managed to persuade the US government to turn a blind eye to what they’re doing. According to Mme Musette, the administration is more than willing to give them a shot at bringing Christ the Lord back to earth, because it’ll be such a boost for America’s international standing, not to mention the tourist trade.’

  ‘Can anybody be that cynical?’ asked Robyn.

  ‘What do they care?’ said Charlie bitterly. ‘A few missing kids stay missing, that’s all. Serves them right for running away from home in the first place. The police don’t mind. If they know for sure that the kids have been recruited by the Célèstines, they don’t have to waste time and manpower looking for them.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Robyn.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ said Charlie. ‘I want a drink first, then a bath, then I’m going to have this hand fixed. It hurts like all hell.’

  ‘They actually made you eat it?’ said Robyn.

  ‘Yes, they actually made me eat it. Why? Do you want to know what it tasted like?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Robyn told him, ruffling his hair again. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  Charlie touched her cheek. ‘I’m sorry, too. I guess I’m over-tired, that’s all.’

  ‘Maybe we could get some help, a private detective or somebody like that,’ Robyn suggested. ‘They have agencies that specialize in snatching back children from divorced fathers, don’t they? Maybe one of them could snatch Martin back. Have they brought him down to Louisiana yet?’

  ‘Yes. Mme Musette told me. They’re holding the Last Supper at L’Église des Pauvres, in Acadia.’

  ‘All right, then. Let’s get you fixed up. Then let’s see if we can find one of those people to help us. There’s bound to be somebody in the yellow pages.’

  Charlie lowered his head. He started to laugh; but his laughter quickly turned to sobs of exhaustion. ‘God, you’re so practical,’ he told Robyn. ‘Who would have thought of looking in the yellow pages to find somebody to save my son from being eaten alive?’

  ‘Come on, Charlie, rest,’ said Robyn. ‘They’ll be up with your drink in a minute.’

  Charlie eased off his plastic sandals and lay back on the bed. ‘I have to admit, I feel dreadful,’ he said. ‘Do you want to turn on the television? I could use some light relief.’

  Robyn went across and switched on The Flintstones, and then changed channels to a local news bulletin. A black woman was complaining about teenage dope dealers in Audubon Park. Robyn said, ‘I’ll run your bath, okay?’

  Charlie closed his eyes for a moment, and said, ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you.’

  ‘You would have survived. You’re a survivor.’

  There was a quick knock at the door. Robyn called, ‘Coming!’ and she came out of the bathroom. ‘That’ll be room service.’

  She opened the door and instantly it was banged wide. In came a wide-shouldered half-caste with tight curly hair and a face like pitted oak. He was followed by M. Fontenot, in a crumpled, fawn summer-weight suit; and behind him, wearing a silky white gown, came Mme Musette.

  ‘What in hell are you doing here?’ Charlie demanded, sitting up.

  Mme Musette closed the door behind her. ‘You will have to forgive us, Charlie. It was the only way.’

  ‘What do you mean, “the only way”?’

  ‘The only way in which we could quickly locate your lady companion,’ said M. Fontenot, with the same benign smile that had disturbed Charlie so much in the Church of the Angels. ‘We had her under observation yesterday evening, but she disappeared, and so obviously the most expedient way of finding her was to let you find her for us.’

  ‘Who are these people?’ Robyn wanted to know.

  Mme Musette closed and opened her eyes like a cat. ‘Charlie will introduce us, won’t you, Charlie? Although you haven’t yet met Henri, have you? Henri is what you might call my argument of last resort.’

  Henri patted his bulky seersucker sports coat, to indicate that he was wearing a shoulder holster. Mme Musette said, ‘Sometimes even the most persuasive of words are not enough.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Charlie asked her.

  M. Fontenot said, ‘You must return with us now to Elegance Street. The Last Supper is too important to us for it to be jeopardized in any way. You are still not per
suaded, you see, of the truth of what we believe, and you are still intent on taking your son away from us. This lady is your accomplice. And so, you see, we must insist that you remain with us until after the second coming.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Robyn insisted.

  ‘But my dear, it is imperative,’ said Mme Musette. ‘Not only imperative, but in your own personal interest, too. There is an FBI warrant out for your arrest, as an accessory to first-degree homicide, and as an accomplice to interstate kidnap. And a stolen vehicle has been found at your parents’ home in Connecticut, and you are wanted for questioning in connection with that.’

  ‘You’re completely cracked,’ said Robyn.

  Mme Musette smiled. ‘You will never forgive yourselves if you miss the second coming. And we will never forgive you if you do anything at all to interfere with it. You must be there, Charlie! Imagine it! And your own son will be the final sacrifice to restore the Lord Jesus Christ to His throne on earth.’

  Charlie gave Robyn a sideways glance, but said nothing.

  Robyn said, in a challenging voice, ‘Does it have to be Charlie’s son? Can’t you see what you’re putting him through?’

  Mme Musette came up to Charlie and gently stroked his cheek with her one finger. ‘Charlie’s son is already numbered and blessed in preparation for the Last Supper. It is an honour, not a punishment. Charlie will understand that soon, when the Lord Jesus Christ reappears in front of us, and so will you. I told you that you would kneel down before me and kiss my feet, didn’t I, Charlie? And so you shall.’

  Charlie jerked his cheek away and looked up at Mme Musette defiantly.

  She pretended to be offended, and then laughed. ‘I’m offering you everything, Charlie. Purpose, meaning, success. If you stay with the Célèstines, who knows?––you could become an executive of the church. You could be an administrator, an overseer, spreading the word of the Célèstine order all over the world. You could be the kind of man people admire.’ She turned to Robyn. ‘As for you, my dear, we always have vacancies for trained communicators.’

  ‘Stick it in your ear,’ said Robyn. ‘I’m not going anywhere, not with you, and neither is Charlie.’

  M. Fontenot said, ‘I regret that you have no choice. I am quite prepared to give Henri the instructions to do away with you. Of course, I would rather not.’

  Charlie eased himself up off the bed. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll come. But on the strict condition that you don’t hurt Miss Harris here. No finger-chopping ceremonies, do you understand me?’

  Mme Musette bowed her head. ‘Nobody at the church of the Célèstines has ever had even the smallest morsel of their body removed without their full consent. Remember, Charlie, even you cut your finger off voluntarily. If you had admitted that you were not genuinely interested in joining us, we would not have obliged you to do it. Every act of self-amputation and self-ingestion is done willingly and joyfully.’

  Charlie lifted his left hand. ‘Do you call this joyful?’

  ‘I call it appropriate,’ said Mme Musette. ‘A sort of poetic justice.’

  ‘Now, let’s go,’ put in M. Fontenot.

  ‘I don’t have any shoes,’ Charlie reminded him.

  ‘You have the plastic sandals you wore to walk here. Besides, our limousine is right outside. You won’t have to walk far.’

  Charlie sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up the sandals. ‘It’s a pity about Mrs Kemp,’ he said, as he tugged them on, one-handed.

  Mrs Kemp, thought Robyn. What on earth is he talking about Mrs Kemp for?

  ‘Mrs Kemp lost everything,’ Charlie went on. M. Fontenot and Mme Musette weren’t really listening. ‘Her niece, her boarding house business. Her car.’

  As he said this, Charlie looked intently at Robyn, almost as if he were trying to transmit his thoughts by telepathy. ‘She lost her car,’ he went on, ‘and then she lost her life. Poor Mrs Kemp. All she has now are the keys to heaven.’

  Robyn suddenly realized what Charlie was trying to say to her. The car keys, make sure you take the car keys with you.

  ‘Are we ready?’ asked M. Fontenot impatiently. ‘The last thing I want is another parking ticket.’

  ‘May I take my purse?’ asked Robyn. ‘It’s there, on the bedside table.’

  M. Fontenot picked up her small, red-leather purse, opened it up, and quickly rifled through it to make sure that it didn’t conceal a gun or a canister of Mace. Charlie heard the keys jingling in the bottom of it, and lowered his head a little to hide his tension. M. Fontenot passed the purse to Robyn, and said, ‘Now perhaps we can go back to Elegance Street.’

  They left room 501 and walked along the corridor towards the elevator. Apart from Charlie’s plastic sandals, they could have been delegates to the Pontiac Dealers of Illinois’ Fall Convention, which was taking place at the Hotel Ponchartrain all this week – executives and secretaries. They went down to ground level without speaking to each other, although Henri kept clearing his throat.

  Together they crossed the lobby, making their way through a milling crowd of over-enthusiastic motor-dealers. M. Fontenot went through the revolving door first, followed by Robyn and Mme Musette. Charlie hesitated, but Henri said to him. ‘Go on, you go ahead,’ and the expression on his face wasn’t the kind of expression that gave him much leeway for argument.

  Charlie pushed his way around; but just as he reached the street he suddenly forced himself backwards against the glass behind him, arresting the door’s momentum. Then he quickly knelt down, preventing Henri from pushing forward by keeping his back against the glass, snatched off one of his plastic sandals, and wedged it underneath the bottom of the door. Henri shouted out loud, and tried to heave the door around further, but all he succeeded in doing was wedging the shoe more tightly, and imprisoning himself in his own section of the door.

  ‘The car!’ Charlie shouted, hopping across the sidewalk.

  M. Fontenot, seeing what had happened, rushed to the revolving door and tried to drag the sandal out, but Henri kept on pushing the door, not realizing what was holding it. Several convention delegates tried to turn the door, too, and one of them started arguing with M. Fontenot and telling him to get out of the way.

  Mme Musette rushed up to Charlie and clung on to his jacket with her mutilated hands. ‘Charlie! This is madness! You can’t go! Stay, Charlie, don’t be such a fool! What kind of a life can you possibly have without us?’

  Charlie tried to pull her away from him, but she held on. Robyn came up behind her, hooked her arm around her neck, stuck out a leg behind her, and ju-jitsued her on to the sidewalk, flat on her back. Mme Musette screamed. M. Fontenot, turning around, jostled his way through the conventioneers and approached Charlie with his fists raised. Charlie swung his arm around and gave him a stupefying open-handed slap on the side of the head.

  Charlie kicked off the other sandal and he and Robyn ran along the sidewalk, dodging passers-by. They collided with two elegant young black men in matching berets, and knocked over a sack of trash that was waiting for collection. ‘Where’s the car?’ Charlie hollered, as he sidestepped a woman with a baby buggy.

  ‘Basement!’ Robyn panted. ‘Just down here!’

  They reached the entrance to the hotel’s underground parking lot, and ran down the dark concrete ramp. Charlie’s feet stung but he scarcely noticed. When they reached the bottom of the ramp, Charlie looked around wildly, and said, ‘Where is it? Where did you park it? I don’t see it anywhere!’

  ‘They parked it for me!’ Robyn told him. ‘It has to be here somewhere!’

  They heard footsteps running at the top of the ramp. ‘For Christ’s sake, where is it?’ Charlie yelled.

  ‘There!’ said Robyn. ‘Look! Over in the corner! Behind that white car!’

  Charlie peered into the far corner of the parking lot. He could just make out the bronze roof of Mrs Kemp’s station wagon, parked behind a new white Lincoln Town Car. ‘Come on!’ he said, and together he and Robyn v
aulted over the hoods of three cars to reach the station wagon. Robyn fumbled the keys out of her purse and gave them to Charlie, and he unlocked the door. The hotel’s parking-jockeys had wedged the cars in so tightly that he had to bang the door hard against the BMW parked next to it in order to give them enough space to squeeze their way into the front seats.

  ‘How are we going to get out?’ Robyn asked him, panicking.

  Charlie slotted the key into the ignition, and twisted it. He had seen so many TV movies in which fugitives tried unsuccessfully to start up their cars just as a murderer was catching up with them that he was amazed when the engine immediately roared into life.

  ‘They’re here!’ said Robyn. Charlie glanced towards the entrance ramp and saw that Henri and M. Fontenot had reached the parking area, and were dodging their way towards them between the cars. Henri had his right hand lifted, and Charlie saw the sharp glint of a nickel-plated handgun.

  Charlie tugged the station wagon’s shift into second, and jammed his bare foot down on the gas. The station wagon bucked forward with a scream of tyres, and hit the Lincoln hard in the trunk. Charlie kept his foot down, hoping to push the Lincoln forward, but somebody had applied the Lincoln’s parking brake, and all he managed to do was shove it two or three feet, with a long squeal of protesting rubber.

  Henri scrambled over the BMW, and out of the corner of his eye Charlie saw him aiming his revolver. He yanked the gearshift into reverse, and the station wagon screeched backward, so violently that it collided with the parking lot wall. Robyn bent forward and covered her head with her hands, in the emergency position recommended by airlines. Charlie yelled, ‘Hold tight!’ and threw the station wagon into second gear, so that it roared forward and collided with the Lincoln yet again, a deafening crash that sent the Lincoln front first into a new Mercedes 350 parked opposite, and the Mercedes into a Thunderbird behind it.