Ritual

by Graham Masterton

  ‘Thank you, sergeant,’ said Mme Musette smoothly. ‘You’ve done an excellent job.’

  ‘You can’t hold us here,’ Robyn protested.

  ‘Of course not,’ said M. Musette. ‘But while young Martin McLean remains alive and whole, I’m sure that his devoted father is not going to abandon him. Any more than you my dear, are going to abandon his devoted father.’

  ‘I want to see him,’ Charlie insisted.

  ‘By all means,’ agreed M. Musette. He looked at his eighteen-carat Ebel wristwatch. ‘At the moment, he is at devotions. But he should be here shortly. Perhaps you would like me to show you around?’

  Robyn said, ‘This is quite illegal and quite ridiculous.’

  M. Musette smiled distantly. ‘It depends on your definition of both words, my dear. Sergeant Duprée will assure you that nothing is being done here which contravenes either state or federal law. And as for it being ridiculous... well, even our Lord was ridiculed. Look at him there, with his crown of thorns.’

  Robyn snapped, ‘Officer – I insist you arrest this man for kidnap.’

  Sergeant Duprée shook his head. ‘I can’t do that, miss. I don’t have any grounds.’

  ‘Then arrest me, on the charges you mentioned before.’

  ‘I may,’ Sergeant Duprée told her. ‘But not just yet.’

  ‘It’s all right, Sergeant Duprée,’ said M. Musette. ‘You just leave these good people to us. We’ll take care of them.’

  ‘Sir – I’m sure you will,’ Sergeant Duprée replied. He raised his hat to Mme Musette, and then to Robyn, and walked unhurriedly out of the hall, closing the double doors behind him.

  ‘Now what?’ said Charlie.

  M. Musette raised a hand. ‘There’s no need to be impatient, Mr McLean. Nor is there any cause to be angry. First of all, you look as if you could use a shower and a change of clothes. Perhaps I can lend you one of my suits; and I’m sure that Ms Harris here is just as slender as my dear wife.’

  ‘I want my son,’ Charlie repeated doggedly.

  ‘All in good time,’ M. Musette assured him.

  It was then that a wheelchair was pushed into the hall by a man with a blue medic’s shirt and close-cropped hair. The wheelchair was crammed with white pillows, to support the creature who was sitting in it. The man with the close-cropped hair wheeled it across the hall, and parked it right beside M. Musette. ‘You said you wanted to see her before she cuts off her breasts.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said M. Musette. ‘I wanted to give her a last word of praise and prayer.’ He knelt down beside the wheelchair, resting his elbow on the arm of it, and looked warmly into the eyes of his Devotee. Charlie could feel Robyn’s hand searching for his. He held it, and she clutched him tight with absolute horror.

  The creature propped up in the wheelchair had no legs and one arm. She was wearing nothing but a yellow sleeveless T-shirt, which had been knotted together underneath her pelvis to conceal the stumps of her legs. The stump of her left arm was still wrapped in surgical dressings. It was her face, however, which was the most disfigured. She had cut off most of the fleshy part of her nose, leaving a red-raw cavity, and she had sliced ribbons of flesh off her chin and her cheeks. Her carefully back-combed ash-blonde hair made her disfigurement seem all the more grotesque.

  M. Musette held her one remaining hand, and squeezed it. The creature turned her eyes on him, and gave him a mutilated smile. ‘The Lord is near,’ she whispered. ‘I can feel it.’

  M. Musette said, ‘Yes, Velma, my dear. The Lord is near.’

  22

  Charlie and Robyn were taken away from the main building to one of the accommodation blocks, which looked as if it had once been a creamery. They were led to separate rooms, both bare except for a single bed and a plain pine locker, and a picture of St Célèstine. They were allowed to shower; and when they came out, they found that their old clothes had been removed, and new clothes laid out in their place. Charlie had been given a light grey suit with unfashionable bell-bottomed trousers, while Robyn had been given a blue print cotton frock with puffy sleeves and a very deeply scooped front.

  All the time, the man with the close-cropped hair stood guard outside Charlie’s door; and a matronly-looking woman waited outside Robyn’s door. They were not technically prisoners, but Charlie was quite sure what the reaction would be if they attempted to escape.

  They were brought back to the main building and told to wait. M. Musette was welcoming the delegation from Reno, Nevada. Mme Musette was meditating. They sat at the end of one of the trestle tables, supervised from twenty feet away by the man with the close-cropped hair, who stood with his arms folded, completely expressionless, and stared at the opposite wall.

  Charlie looked around. ‘They must be holding the Last Supper in here.’

  ‘Just so long as they don’t expect me to attend,’ said Robyn. ‘That woman, Velma––I can’t believe that anybody could do that to themselves.’

  ‘Religious ecstasy,’ said Charlie. ‘Think of Jonestown, that was worse in a way. I guess there’s a self-destructive element in all of us.’

  ‘But she smiled...’

  Charlie closed his eyes. He didn’t like to think about Velma. He could still remember too vividly the way she had appeared when he had first seen her at the Windsor Hotel. A little blowsy, maybe, but strongly attractive; a woman with looks. It was almost impossible to believe that the maimed and mutilated creature in the wheelchair was actually her, the same woman. Only the eyes gave her away. They were Velma’s eyes. The eyes, and the ash-blonde hair.

  Robyn held Charlie’s hand. ‘Supposing it actually happens,’ she said.

  ‘Supposing what actually happens?’

  ‘Supposing they eat all these twelve Devotees and supposing He does come back – Jesus.’

  ‘Are you kidding? Do you think that Jesus – even if you believed in Jesus – would seriously consider returning to earth for a bunch of crazies like the Célèstines?’

  ‘Do you believe in Him?’ asked Robyn seriously.

  Charlie lowered his eyes, but wouldn’t look at her. ‘Right at the moment, I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Because of Velma?’

  ‘I guess Velma’s part of it. But mostly it’s because I can’t see Jesus condoning anything like this. I mean, whatever name you want to put on it, it’s barbaric. It’s like voodoo.’

  Robyn said, ‘I went to Haiti once. My friend’s father used to have a sugar plantation just outside of Port-au-Prince. She was always talking about voodoo. That was when Baby Doc was still in power, and they still had the Tonton Macoute. She took me down to the servant’s quarters, and showed me a bone that her father’s maid used to use for putting evil spells on people. It was a baby’s finger bone. It gave me the shivers. She said if you pointed this bone at somebody you didn’t like, Baron Samedi would come and tear them to pieces.’

  ‘Baron Samedi?’ said Charlie, lifting his head.

  ‘That’s right. He’s the great voodoo demon. The king of all the zombies.’

  ‘Eric mentioned Baron Samedi.’

  ‘Well, I expect he would. He probably thought that Baron Samedi was coming to get him. I mean he probably believed it.’

  ‘Samedi means Saturday, right?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something clicked. Maybe it’s just circumstantial. But in the Célèstine Bible, when they’re talking about the Last Supper, they say something like “You should know by these secrets that he was vanquished on the fifth day, but the sixth day is his day, and on that day you’re going to get your just reward.”’

  ‘Well?’ said Robyn.

  ‘Well, don’t ask me,’ said Charlie. ‘But “his” was written with a small “h”, as if they weren’t referring to Jesus, but to somebody else. “He was vanquished on the fifth day”. Who was? Not Jesus. Jesus triumphed on the fifth day. He was crucified and he died and just by dying he redeemed the sins of the world, and conquered evil. S
o who was vanquished?’

  Robyn whispered, ‘The Devil.’

  ‘That’s right, evil was vanquished. But what does the Célèstine Bible say? The sixth day is his day. And the sixth day is Saturday. Samedi. And on that day you’re going to get your just reward.’

  ‘Charlie,’ said Robyn. ‘What exactly are you trying to tell me?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m going crazy. I am going crazy. But supposing when those Célèstines lived on that Caribbean island with those cannibals all those years ago – supposing their religions became totally tangled up, voodoo and Roman Catholicism, so that you couldn’t tell one from the other? The Caribs worshipped Baron Samedi, right? So what if Baron Samedi got himself all mixed together with Jesus Christ? Supposing what they’re actually doing here isn’t arranging for the second coming of Jesus – but the second coming of Baron Samedi? “The sixth day is his day,” right? For God’s sake – supposing they’ve gotten it all wrong?’

  Robyn squeezed his hand. ‘If you don’t believe in Jesus Christ, you’re not going to start believing in the Devil... Or are you? Come on, Charlie, it’s not going to happen. It’s all fantasy. There won’t be any second coming of Jesus Christ and there won’t be any reincarnation of Baron Samedi.’

  Charlie sat back, and tried to smile at her. ‘What do you think of the suit?’ he asked.

  ‘Terrible,’ she said. ‘You look like one of the Monkees.’

  ‘Something really bad is going to happen here tomorrow,’ Charlie told her. ‘Can’t you feel it? I don’t believe in the supernatural, but can’t you feel the atmosphere in here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Robyn. She stared at him sadly. ‘What are you going to do about Martin?’ she asked. ‘Do you think you’re going to be able to get him free?’

  Charlie said, ‘I’m going to have to talk to him first. It’s possible that he’s changed his mind about cutting himself up. If he has, we’re going to have a pretty good chance of getting out of here. If he hasn’t... well, I’m going to have to work that out as I go along.’

  The doors opened and M. Musette appeared, accompanied by Mme Musette. ‘Well, Mr McLean,’ he smiled, rubbing his hands together so that they made a dry, chafing noise. ‘How would you like a tour of inspection?’

  ‘Can I see Martin?’

  ‘My dear sir, of course you can. You are only too welcome. I will take you to meet all of the twelve Devotees who will be part of the second coming. Your son, naturellement, is the twelfth. Perhaps you will meet some other faces that you know.’

  Mme Musette said, ‘We were talking about you, Mr McLean, just a moment ago. We were saying what a courageous man you are. You have fought harder than any other father we have come across. You were mistaken, of course. Being a father does not entitle you to own your child’s future. But very courageous.’

  Charlie could have lashed out with any one of a hundred different retorts. But he knew that this was the moment for keeping cool. He nodded his head in silent acknowledgement of Mme Musette’s compliment. At the same time he noticed how incredibly beautiful she looked, in her white silk sheath. She was standing directly under the light, so that her body stood out in shadowed relief – her breasts, her angular hips, the curves of her upper thighs and the distinctive swelling of her pudenda. She could have been a statue, smoothed out of pearly-white ice.

  ‘This way,’ said M. Musette. ‘Let me show you some of our accommodation.’

  He led Charlie and Robyn outside. The afternoon was grey and overcast but very humid. They walked across to a long single-storey building with a corrugated asbestos roof and whitewashed walls. ‘This is where our friends from Le Reposoir are staying,’ M. Musette explained. ‘I’m sure that they’ll be glad to see you.’ He opened the door, and beckoned Charlie and Robyn inside. ‘This church is a family, you know. If we like you––well, we treat you like a relative.’

  ‘And that’s what you do to your relatives, is it?’ asked Charlie. ‘You cut them up and eat them?’

  M. Musette looked saturnine and stern. ‘Don’t mock me, Mr McLean.’

  ‘I’ll make a deal with you,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ll stop mocking you if you let me take my son away from here, unharmed.’

  ‘What a word to use, unharmed,’ said M. Musette. ‘How can he come to harm if his destiny is to become part of the reincarnated Christ? Mr McLean, you son is going to be honoured above all imaginable honour. His life will become the keystone in the perfect reconstruction of the Mother Church. Tomorrow the world will change for ever, and your son’s self-sacrifice will make that change possible. Don’t you feel any pride at all? Don’t you understand what your son is about to do?’

  Charlie said tautly, ‘What my son is about to do makes me sick to my stomach, so don’t talk to me about perfect reconstructions of the Mother Church, do you mind? Just do whatever it is you want to do, and then leave us alone.’

  ‘You’re a heretic, Mr McLean.’

  ‘You’re not the first person to tell me that today,’ said Charlie.

  M. Musette smiled, as if he knew what Charlie was talking about, but he said nothing in reply. He took hold of Charlie’s elbow and guided him into the accommodation block. ‘Of course, this isn’t the Beverley Hills Hotel, but it’s clean and it’s comfortable – and, do you know, we’ll be catering for more than one hundred and fifty people here––Guides and Devotees and advisors. It’s very peaceful here, very secluded. Our Lord will be mightily pleased.’

  ‘Mightily, huh?’ said Robyn sarcastically. M. Musette ignored her.

  They walked along the corridor to the first door. M. Musette knocked, and said ‘C’est moi, madame!’

  They waited for a while, and then the door was opened. It was Mrs Foss, from the Iron Kettle. She was wearing a beige two-piece suit, with a pleated skirt. She looked at Charlie in bewilderment; but then her face suddenly broke into a smile.

  ‘You came!’ she exclaimed. ‘You actually came! Harriet bet me twenty dollars that you wouldn’t.’

  Charlie looked back at her, stunned. ‘Mrs Foss? I thought you hated the Célèstines.’

  ‘Oh, come on now, how could anybody hate the Célèstines, when they’re bringing back Lord Jesus Christ? You didn’t take me seriously, did you? You knew about Ivy going missing? Ivy was a Devotee, and I’m a Guide. Ivy’s one of the thousand thousand – and you, you lucky man – your son’s going to be the one! The thousandth thousandth!’

  Charlie said, ‘You inveigled me into it, didn’t you, Mrs Foss?’

  ‘Oh, come on now––inveigled?’

  Charlie was furious. ‘You trapped me, you caught me, and worst of all, you caught Martin. You were a Célèstine and Harriet was a Célèstine, and you knew how close you were getting to the thousandth thousandth. Did the Musettes give you some kind of reward for kidnapping my son? Huh? Money, stocks, something like that?’

  ‘Your son wanted to join us,’ said M. Musette calmly.

  ‘My son didn’t know anything about you until that dwarf of yours persuaded him to go to Le Reposoir. You know that and I know that, so don’t you give me any bullshit about him wanting to join you. He was kidnapped, and then he was brainwashed.’

  M. Musette shrugged. ‘If you say so, monsieur.’

  ‘You bet I damn well say so. In fact, I want to see him now.’

  M. Musette clapped his hands in genial impatience. ‘All in good time, Mr McLean! Give your son a chance to pray and meditate! Give him a chance to realize his own private destiny!’

  ‘Let me tell you something,’ Charlie warned him. ‘My son’s destiny is to grow up, and mature, and then grow old, with a wife and a family and a house wherever he wants it – that’s what my son’s destiny happens to be. My son’s destiny is certainly not connected with chopping off parts of his body and eating them. Now––do you have that straight?’

  M. Musette turned away. ‘I thought you would understand, Mr McLean. I really believed that you would understand.’

  ‘I understa
nd everything,’ Charlie replied. ‘I understand everything perfectly.’

  ‘Then come along,’ said M. Musette, and guided Charlie to the next room. He knocked, and the door was opened by Mr Haxalt, from the First Litchfield Savings Bank. He was wearing a bathrobe, and his silver hair was wet and spiky. ‘Yes?’ he asked; but when he saw Charlie and M. Musette together, he stepped back, confused.

  ‘Mr Haxalt is one of our staunchest supporters, aren’t you, Walter?’ M. Musette enthused.

  ‘I do my best,’ said Walter Haxalt guardedly.

  Charlie said, ‘You know something, Mr Haxalt? I’m glad I took your parking place. I should’ve stayed there all day.’

  M. Musette laughed. ‘Mr McLean is a little upset,’ he told Walter Haxalt. ‘He’ll get over it, mark my words.’

  He guided Charlie to the next room. There, sitting on the bed, dusting his feet with athlete’s foot powder, was Christopher Prescott, one of the old men from the green at Allen’s Corners. ‘Why, you made it!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘Where’s your friend?’ Charlie asked him.

  ‘My friend? Oh, you mean Oliver Burack. Oliver T. Burack. He doesn’t know anything about all this. Better that he doesn’t. He’s back at Allen’s Corners, where he should be. He thinks I’ve gone to see my sister in Tampa. Little does he know, hey?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Charlie, his voice flat. ‘Little does he know.’

  A large room at the end of the block had been converted into a television lounge, and there Charlie saw several more faces from Allen’s Corners. Clive, the deputy sheriff who had first approached him when he arrived there, gave him a shy, acknowledging wave. Then there was the woman who served behind the delicatessen counter at Allen’s Corners supermarket. All of them were smiling, all of them were happy. You would have thought they had come for a weekend vacation, rather than a religious bloodbath.

  ‘Where’s my son?’ asked Charlie.

  M. Musette laid his arm across Charlie’s shoulders. Charlie didn’t attempt to lever it away. ‘He’s a very special boy, your son. We’re keeping him someplace special.’