Holy Terror

by Graham Masterton

  ‘Who are you?’ Conor repeated.

  ‘You seriously don’t recognize me?’ said the man, pointing to his own face. ‘You and I have been on the same TV news reports. Maybe I look better on the small screen.’

  The man’s face suddenly fitted into place. ‘I know you now. You’re that religious terrorist. Branch.’

  ‘The Reverend Dennis Evelyn Branch to you, sir. And “religious terrorist” isn’t exactly the lifestyle description I’d choose. You might just as well call Moses a religious terrorist.’

  ‘Moses didn’t plant bombs in public buildings, as far as I remember.’

  ‘Moses did worse! Moses brought down floods, and locusts. Moses brought down the angel of death. Moses didn’t need no bombs.’

  ‘So what’s going on here, Reverend Branch? How did I get here?’

  ‘Oh, Hypnos worked one of those little tricks of his. And as for what’s going on … you don’t need to know that, Mr O’Neil. All you have to know is that fate has involved you – you personally – in the single mightiest crusade that this world has ever known.’

  ‘Crusade? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Dennis Evelyn Branch scratched the back of his hand, loosening a dry fragment of white skin. He lifted his hand to his mouth and tore it off with his teeth, and distastefully chewed it. ‘The day will come when you and I can stand hand in hand in a world of in-finite harmony. A world where no man ever raises his fist to his brother.’

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry, but I don’t want to stand hand in hand with you anywhere.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, too, because you don’t have any choice no more. The Lord has picked you out, in His mysterious way, and you know what happens to those who show reluctance to serve the Lord.’

  Conor stood up; but Pork Knuckle immediately stood up, too, and gave that aggressive forward shrug of his suit-shoulders that bouncers always do when they’re getting ready to hit you.

  ‘Please, Mr O’Neil,’ said Dennis Evelyn Branch. ‘I’d consider it a favor if you sat down. I don’t have a whole lot of time. As you probably saw, the FBI have discovered that I’m here in New York and me and most of my people have to leave before five o’clock if we’re going to catch the flight to where we’re going. I don’t relish spending the rest of my life locked up in maximum security with some tedious obsessive like the Unabomber.’

  Conor remained standing. ‘I don’t understand what you want from me,’ he said. ‘I don’t have any of the contents of those safety deposit boxes. I got caught up in this robbery by accident and all I’m trying to do is get the cops off my back.’

  ‘Well, I’m aware of that,’ said Dennis Evelyn Branch, scratching deep inside his left sleeve. But the whole point is that you did get caught up in it. You shouldn’t have been so conscientious, should you? I guess you forgot that you weren’t a boney-fidey policeman any more, that’s what happened. You kind of got intoxicated by the thrill of the chase, didn’t you?

  ‘If you’d have let that Gary Motson get away, you wouldn’t be up to your neck in this situation now.’

  ‘Gary Motson, that was his name?’ Conor still pictured him as the Angel Gabriel.

  ‘Gary Motson, that’s right. Well, he’s not anybody in particular. He’s just some coach-class hood that your partner knew. An inveterate sticker-upper of liquor marts and corner convenience stores. Exactly the kind of fall guy we were looking for … until you came along, of course, and gave us a fall guy of real quality … someone the police were absolutely salivating to get their hands on.

  ‘Sal-i-vating,’ he repeated, picking a piece of skin from between his teeth.

  Conor slowly sat down. ‘My partner knew him? My partner Salvatore Morales?’

  ‘That’s the man. Very helpful. Very courteous. I was sorry to hear what happened to him.’

  ‘I don’t get this. Salvatore knew this Gary Motson before the robbery?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dennis Evelyn Branch, with obvious pleasure. ‘We needed somebody to take the blame for the missing safety deposit boxes, didn’t we? It’s what you call laying a false trail.’

  ‘I don’t believe that Salvatore would have gotten involved with anything like this,’ said Conor.

  ‘You don’t? Then you don’t know how weak people can be. That’s one of the things I’m crusading for, Mr O’Neil, to make us all strong again. Your partner had a gambling habit, I’ll bet you didn’t know, and he was into the bookmakers for more than you can imagine. Not only that, his mother had cancer of the tongue and he owed the hospital tens of thousands of dollars. There was something else, too: he hated Spurr’s for giving you the job that he believed was rightfully his, and there is no man easier to suborn than a man who is poisoned with jealousy.’

  Conor lowered his head. It all fitted into place now. How else had Gary Motson acquired a list of safety deposit boxes? How else had he known where the wall-safe was?

  Dennis Evelyn Branch said, ‘We got to hear of your partner through one of our disciples, who does a little money-lending on the side. We put a proposition to your partner and he accepted it. He told us how to get into the strongroom, and in return we were going to give him a very healthy retirement plan. Pity he’ll never collect it.’

  ‘What about this Gary Motson character?’

  ‘That was your partner’s idea. A second robbery, to distract attention from the first. He offered Gary Motson a third share in whatever he and that black individual could steal from Spurr’s safety deposit boxes. He even volunteered to act as a hostage to help them get out of there safely; and to make it look less like an inside job. Gary Motson loved that touch, poor sap. He didn’t know those safety deposit boxes were empty, any more than you did. He wouldn’t have made any money out of that raid, but at least he would have got away. He and that black individual were supposed to go to Canada for a spell – and they would have done, if you hadn’t been so – phewjf! what can I call it? – all-fired hot on the job.’

  He paused, and lifted one white, almost-invisible eyebrow. ‘Still, we mustn’t gainsay the ways of the Lord, must we? As it turns out, everybody thinks that you committed this robbery, and all of the owners of those safety deposit boxes have come to you to get their goodies back. And it’s all been working very well, thanks to that very co-operative lawyer of yours.’

  He burrowed into his cuff with his teeth and pulled off another strip of translucent skin.

  Conor glanced at Pork Knuckle and said, ‘What’s to stop me from going to the police and telling them all this?’

  ‘Three reasons – apart from the fact that I could kill you here and now. Of course I don’t want to do that, because who’s going to pay blackmail money to a dead man? Number one, the police would drop you the second you walked in through the precinct door – or, if not, they would make sure that you accidentally suffocated in your cell. Number two, even if you survived, nobody would believe you. Hypnotists came in and made you open the strongroom? Hypnotists? I don’t think so! Not only that, you have money problems of your own, don’t you? What with your divorce, and your new apartment, and your pretty new girlfriend to take care of. Just think of the way that a jury might look at it. Your partner was prepared to betray his trust to straighten out his debts. Who’s to say that you weren’t prepared to do the same? I don’t know what your partner said to Gary Motson, but I gather from what I hear on the news that Motson’s going to testify that you were involved in the conspiracy, too. I know you weren’t. But I’m not going to testify on your behalf, am I? And you only have one witness to your hypnotism story, Darrell Bussman, and he’s in hospital in a coma and unlikely to recover.’

  Conor cleared his throat. ‘So … what do you want me to do?’ he asked, hoarsely.

  ‘Well, there’s one thing in particular,’ said Dennis Evelyn Branch. ‘Several owners of those safety deposit boxes have been kind of wary about handing over so much money until they see you in person. We already have most of the money we need, but we’re talking
about an extra fifteen to twenty million dollars, and I’d hate to lose out on those funds if we have the means to lay our hands on them.’

  ‘And you want me to help you? Forget it.’

  ‘Oh, you will help. No question about it.’

  ‘And what if I refuse?’

  ‘You won’t refuse.’

  ‘I’m refusing now. It’s going to be difficult enough to prove that I didn’t have anything to do with this robbery, without actively extorting money on the strength of it. Do you know what it’s like, walking around the city knowing that you could be shot on sight at any second, and never know what hit you?’

  ‘Well, that’s pitiful. It is. But you should think of yourself as a martyr. We’re all martyrs to something, Mr O’Neil. I’ve been a martyr to eczema all of my life. But I think of my eczema as a constant reminder from God that – even though He’s empowered me to carry out His will – I shall never be perfect, as He is. It’s all for the greater good, Mr O’Neil. I may be asking you to make a small sacrifice, Mr O’Neil, but what’s that, when it’s going to help to bring about the greatest crusade since the beginning of Christianity.’

  ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Reverend Branch, but the answer is no, I’m not going to help you. No way. What do you want the money for, anyhow? More bombs? Do you think I could live with myself if I helped you to kill some innocent women and children?’

  ‘In this case, Mr O’Neil, I don’t think you have a choice.’

  The two black-suited men in the comer stopped murmuring and looked toward Branch expectantly. Pork Knuckle rose from his seat and came to stand close to Conor’s shoulder.

  After a calculated pause, Dennis Evelyn Branch stood up too. He reached up and slowly took off his blue sunglasses. Underneath, his eyes were bright pink, as pink as a rabbit’s, with only the tiniest dots for pupils.

  ‘I was chosen by the Lord for a special mission in this life,’ he told Conor. ‘The Lord spoke in my ear and gave me a personal dispensation to do whatever I deemed necessary in order to build for Him the greatest temple that the world has ever seen.’

  He came closer, and touched his forehead with his fingertip. ‘Not a temple of brick, or stone, not at first, although there will be one, when my crusade is over. I’m talking about a temple in the mind – a temple to which the whole world belongs. And I’m telling you, Mr O’Neil, that temple is going to be built, and I’m going to be the builder of it, and you will do whatever I say until that day comes about, because the Lord wills it.’

  Conor said, ‘Why don’t you kiss my ass?’

  Dennis Evelyn Branch gave him a wavering smile. ‘Not to my taste, I’m afraid. But I think I have something to your taste. You must be hungry.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘No, no. I insist. No guest of the Reverend Dennis Evelyn Branch can possibly leave without being offered some refreshment. And maybe, once you’ve eaten, you’ll find that you have a different view of things. Less self-centered, know what I mean? Some people have to be taught to devote themselves to God.’

  He popped his fingers and at once the tall, ascetic-looking man went across the living room and pushed open a squeaky swing door that led to a brightly sunlit kitchen. Dennis Evelyn Branch said nothing while they waited, but continued to stare at Conor with his bright pink eyes, not blinking once.

  ‘I’d better warn you,’ said Conor. ‘There’s nothing that you can do to me that’s going to make me change my mind.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see,’ said Branch.

  He beckoned to Pork Knuckle. The man came up behind Conor and, without warning, seized his arms. Conor tried to twist around and throw himself sideways, but Dennis Evelyn Branch swung his arm back and slapped his face, hard, in a shower of dead skin. Pork Knuckle wrenched Conor’s arms around the back of the chair and fastened them together with handcuffs.

  ‘Don’t you go riling me, Mr O’Neil,’ trembled Dennis Evelyn Branch, raising a single cautioning finger. ‘The Lord has a terrible temper when He’s riled, and I’m the Lord’s own instrument.’

  ‘That’s a pretty good catch-all excuse for behaving like a sociopath,’ Conor retorted. He could still feel the awful scaliness of Branch’s palm against his cheek.

  Pork Knuckle knelt down beside the chair and lashed Conor’s ankles together with wide black Advance industrial tape. At the same time, the tall, ascetic man came out of the kitchen holding at arm’s length a tall glass screwtop jar, with a label for kosher dill pickles still on it.

  ‘Did you ever read Leviticus?’ asked Dennis Evelyn Branch. ‘Yet these may you eat among all the winged insects: those which have above their feet jointed legs with which to jump on the earth. But all other winged insects are detestable to you.’

  He held the jar up in front of Conor’s face. ‘What do you think?’ he said. ‘Do you think these are detestable enough?’

  Inside was a crawling, jerking confusion of shiny brown cockroaches, scores of them, their antennae waving, their legs sliding uselessly up against the glass.

  ‘Lunch,’ said Dennis Evelyn Branch.

  Chapter 17

  Conor struggled wildly, rocking his chair from side to side in an effort to wrench himself free. But Pork Knuckle gripped his shoulders and he couldn’t even tip the chair over.

  ‘Let me loose, you freak!’ Conor demanded.

  ‘I can’t do that. Not until I have your solemn promise that you’ll assist us, in any way we ask you.’

  Conor hadn’t often felt helpless. Once, he had been caught by three suspicious mafiosi who had tied him up in a garage in Queens and doused him in gasoline. He felt the same kind of desperation now: the same kind of breathless panic.

  ‘I’m not agreeing to anything. Two people died because of you.’

  ‘Oh, yes. A treacherous security officer and a low-life thief. You should be glad for them. Anybody who dies to help my crusade will find his place in Heaven.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘You think so? You really think so? That’s what they said about Jesus, isn’t it? He’s crazy, that’s what they said. But they don’t say that now, do they? And they don’t accuse Him of being a murderer, in spite of all of the millions of people who have died in His name.

  ‘It’s quite possible that many more will die before my crusade is complete. Many, many more. But you don’t have to be one of them.’

  ‘Go to hell.’

  Dennis Evelyn Branch unscrewed the lid of the jar full of struggling cockroaches and said, ‘Unpleasant little suckers, aren’t they? Periplaneta americana, introduced from Africa, in spite of their name.’

  ‘You can skip the natural history lesson. You’re wasting your time.’

  ‘They have a particularly nauseating smell of their own, don’t they?’ said Dennis Evelyn Branch, wafting the jar under Conor’s nose. Conor caught the oily, brownish odor of cockroaches, and twisted his head away.

  Branch nodded to Pork Knuckle. Pork Knuckle seized Conor’s hair and pulled it back so hard that he felt his scalp crackle, and a fiery pain all over his head. Then, with his other hand, Pork Knuckle gripped the sides of Conor’s jaw, pressing the nerves so that he couldn’t help but open his mouth.

  ‘My friend here used to be a psychiatric nurse,’ smiled Dennis Evelyn Branch. ‘He has the knack of feeding your reluctant eater.’

  ‘Ggahh!’ Conor gargled, trying to clench his teeth shut.

  But the tall, ascetic man came up to him with a plastic funnel in his hand, and held it over his wide-open mouth.

  ‘I’ll bet you’re thinking to yourself, “He’s not going to do this … he’s just trying to scare me some.” But, you know, I’m not even going to give you the chance to change your mind, because you’ve had your chance. You’ve had three chances, and just like Peter you’ve denied your Lord every time.’

  He said, ‘Carry on, Tyrone,’ and the tall, ascetic man forced the plastic funnel into Conor’s mouth, knocking it hard against his teeth and scr
atching his tongue. As it scraped the back of his throat, he gave a dry, agonizing heave, and then another, and another.

  Conor tried to bite at the funnel but Pork Knuckle was still pressing the nerves at the side of his jaw and he was almost completely paralyzed. He tried to thrash his ankles but the industrial tape was stuck too tight.

  ‘Maybe I ought to say a few words,’ said Dennis Evelyn Branch. ‘After all, these are God’s creatures, too, however much we revile them, and now that they’re going to meet their Maker, we shouldn’t let them go unmoumed.’

  ‘Nggguhhh …’ choked Conor. He gagged and gagged and his stomach let out a deep groan of sheer revulsion.

  Dennis Evelyn Branch shook his head and said, ‘Mmm,’ in satisfaction. ‘This is such an effective form of persuasion. The Klan used to use it to discourage liberal-minded newspaper editors, but don’t let that put you off. It works in ninety-nine per cent of cases; and the other one per cent who manage to tough it out can easily be made to change their minds when you mention the magic words “cockroach enema”. Great idea, isn’t it? Cheap, practical, and organic, too.’

  ‘Aggh! Ggahh!’

  ‘Here,’ said Dennis Evelyn Branch. He lifted the jar so that Conor could clearly see the cockroaches trying to climb up the side of the glass, their leathery forewings flaring every now and then, their antennae desperately waving. Conor closed his eyes, and tried to close his throat, too. But he heard Dennis Evelyn Branch shake the jar over the funnel, and he distinctly heard a few of the cockroaches rattle against the plastic. Oh, God, no! They dropped helter-skelter into his throat, their legs and their wings tickling his esophagus. He heaved, and bile gushed out of the sides of his mouth, but he couldn’t stop himself from swallowing at least six or seven cockroaches, and another one was caught frantically flailing its legs in his windpipe.

  ‘Aaagggh!’ he shouted, cackling for breath.

  Dennis Evelyn Branch peered at him from only three or four inches away – so close that Conor could see the dry flaky skin inside his nostrils. He tried to think of the stories that Father O’Faoghlin had taught him, all about tortured saints. Saints who had plunged their hands into burning braziers, rather than recant their beliefs. Saints who had been hoisted aloft on spears, still proclaiming their love of God while the pointed steel penetrated their entrails. It had been Father O’Faoghlin more than anybody else who had taught him the meaning of justice, and why justice was worth suffering for.