Deathgrip

by Brian Hodge

  I’m sorry, Edie, a spectral apology spoken daily, offered like a prayer. No closer to conjecturing a sensible reason for her death than on the day she’d been murdered. She had died for nothing, for no more than his own misguided, well-intended ambitions.

  The television offered no clues. Since returning, Mike had become a regular viewer of Dawson’s Arm of the Apostle show. Got to feel unclean for an hour, watching the man, all slick charm and manufactured drama. The guy could sell condoms to Mother Teresa. And it just didn’t figure. Dawson was so superficial, it seemed the unlikeliest of conclusions that his was a heart of darkness. He didn’t seem to have a heart at all.

  Gabe Matthews was a different animal altogether. One truly et-up motherfucker. Sociopathic? Psychotic? Murderous for sure. But his profile was so low, he was impossible to chart via a public eye.

  Mike had noticed a few subtle variations in the show from the handful of times he had watched it before. No Amanda, of course, her solo vocal spots given over to another throat, younger and more talented, to be honest.

  As well, Donny was bypassing the solo laying on of hands these days, in favor of an entire cluster of them onstage, like a holy gangbang. Spiritual strength in numbers was Dawson’s reasoning, which stank of misdirection. Among the cluster was a new face, some guy in his mid- to late-twenties. Nondescript in appearance, but he at least looked to have a fully developed soul inside, something in his eyes crying out that Dawson’s stage was the last place he belonged. He looked out of place according to size criteria, too. Nowhere near as big as the two goons Dawson had employed as stage ushers ever since Mike could recall.

  New faces, new routines, Amanda’s continued coverup … in a milieu where maintaining the status quo was prime directive, too much was going on at once for it all to be unrelated. But from the outside, it was one fat convoluted soap opera.

  With a body count.

  Ramon showed up three hours later, wearing a sleeveless blue sweatshirt, his earring du jour a ruby. Somebody really needed to take him out and explain there were more styles of dress than street meat. He plopped into the couch while waiting for Mike to wrangle himself comfortably at the other end.

  Grinning, Ramon reached down to the pleated flap hanging along the front of the couch, tugged at something barely protruding from beneath. Sharp eyes. He came up with a sheer nylon stocking, gave it a quick appreciative sniff.

  “I knew you’d get back in the saddle again,” he said.

  Mike snatched it away and tied it to one crutch like a banner. “Angels of mercy, what can I say?”

  Ramon leaned forward, gave it a playful flip. “Nice wings.” Then he rapped the colorful shell of Mike’s cast. “How do you manage with this thing on?”

  “You can only hit the highlights. I’m thinking about writing a how-to manual. Reader’s Digest Condensed Sex.”

  Ramon was nodding, patting the cast. “That’s good, Mikey, that’s real good. I hear sex is good for old peoples’ circulation.”

  Mike jabbed him in the gut with a crutch tip and demanded the letter.

  When he unfolded it, he found that it was on the typical Dawson Ministries stationery he’d seen so many times before. Usually the same basic message, too, dig deep and send more cash. The text was printed within a crisp inner border, topped at upper left by a cross emanating beams of light from a centered pair of staggered D’s. Very subtle, Donny, what exalted company you keep.

  Mike began to read:

  Dear Friend in Jesus,

  As I write this to YOU, it is with a continued heavy responsibility for YOUR well-being. Especially since I, like the voice of John The Baptist echoing in the wilderness, take delight in bringing you news that forever blesses your LIFE.

  Yes, friend, the Lord indeed looks after His children through the good works of His servants. The news I share with you is inspired by hours spent in the company of our Lord, and having a new burden laid by Him upon my heart.

  It is with great joy that I announce TO YOU that we are changing our Sunday morning Arm of the Apostle Hour from a previously taped format to a show that will come directly to you LIVE as it happens! The transition will first be made on Sunday, November 3rd. I pray that you will be watching as we make television history. Please consult your programming guide for our time in your time zone.

  Rest assured that Donny Dawson Ministries will continue to work miracles in YOUR LIFE. And I hope you will join us in spiritual unity on that very special Sunday.

  Your eternal partner,

  Donny Dawson

  Mike finished reading, skimmed it again with a frown of irritable confusion. He tossed it aside, working his tongue inside one cheek.

  “Dawson didn’t write that.”

  “Mmm?” Ramon said.

  “He didn’t write it, and I bet he didn’t even authorize it, either. You read it, right? You know what it says.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  Mike plucked the letter back from his table and snapped a fingernail against it. “Okay, you’re a beginner, you haven’t seen as many of these things as I have. There’s one thing missing, one thing that shows up on every single one of them.”

  A frown, then a ventured guess. “He didn’t ask for money.”

  “Exactly,” Mike said, then gave the letter another once-over. Waved it in the air in frustration. The thing was so innocuous at first glance, but the more he thought about it, the less sense it made even in the twisted televangelism cosmos. “And this live-format business, what the fuck is this? Live TV, there’s no reason for it. These bozos like to keep their costs down, and we’re talking millions to make that changeover. And the poor mouth-breathing dupes who watch him, it won’t even matter to them.”

  Ramon grinned crookedly. “Hey, watch it, I’m one of those poor mouth-breathing dupes.”

  Mike looked at him, gone blank, then laughed. “Oh man, not you too.”

  “Well, you know, ever since you came back, I was curious.” He sagged down a few pegs, into himself. Fists beginning to clench and unclench at his sides. “Mikey, I do not like that guy, he’s not right, he’s not right at all. I mean, I’m not the world’s best Catholic, I’m not the holiest guy around, okay? But man, I got some respect, you know? I’ve read the Bible, it doesn’t say shit about most of the stuff he’s trying to push onto people. He’s twisting God around into whatever he wants Him to be. Like, sometimes He’s a rich uncle or something, and sometimes He’s a bouncer that’s going to throw you out of Heaven you take the tiniest wrong step.” Ramon wet his lips, shook his head. “Guys like Dawson, they got the fear tactics down pat.”

  “He makes you nervous too, huh?”

  Ramon’s eyes went wide. “Oh man, you want to talk fringe element, there you go. It’s like some kind of cult, only he uses the mail and the airwaves, keeps himself cleaner that way.” He shook a warning finger. “I tell you something. Scariest guy I’ve ever heard about? Jim Jones. He’s the one.”

  Jim Jones. The name went beyond bland into invisibility, while the deeds were so bizarre, their memories were eternal. Jim Jones, self-ordained deity of a jungle kingdom, which ended in a final communion of Kool-Aid and cyanide. Before then, had anyone believed human beings akin to suicidal lemmings? Probably not.

  They both decided they had bad tastes in their mouths, and Ramon unwound from the couch to pull bartender duty. From the kitchen drifted the clinking of ice in glasses, of bottles in use, soothing as wind chimes to Mike’s ear.

  “What do you think makes people that desperate?” Ramon asked, unseen. “Follow a guy like that.”

  “Fear, I guess.” It was the best answer Mike had been able to tell himself. “They’re scared to death of life. They don’t want to take charge of their own lives and their own search for God. So they let somebody like Dawson do it for them. No more responsibility then. They’re absolved.”

  “Easy answers guaranteed.” Ramon reappeared around the corner, a drink in each hand. “Whether they’re right or not.”

 
Mike nodded, right, and promises came as cheap as the rest of the talk, from health to wealth, life and love and happiness. A reason for waking up alive. Dawson and his fraudulent brethren would promise anybody anything, anytime.

  Relief from diabetes, for one. Always a good trick.

  “My specialty,” Ramon said, and handed him a glass. “Enjoy.”

  Mike drank, then held it high for inspection. “Scotch and water? No one can screw that up.”

  Ramon grinned, eyes merry. “I’ve known people who could.”

  He wandered with his own drink to the window, stood with his back to the apartment. Statue, freeze tag. Dusk was dying out there, blue-pink blood smeared across the sky. Palm trees swaying gently in silhouette. South Florida, once the last true eastern American frontier, and now the land had been beaten into submission like anywhere else.

  Sometimes human beings could be such a plague.

  “So you don’t think Dawson did that letter, huh?” Ramon said to the glass, the screen.

  “No.”

  “Think it was that guy tried to kill you?”

  “Maybe. Probably.”

  “Think he’s got some kind of goofy scheme in his head?”

  Mike hunched shoulders, for his own benefit. Ramon was still staring outside. Distant sirens spoke of some calamity in a stranger’s life, better him than me, amen and good night.

  “What other kind would he have?” Mike finally said.

  “Good point.” Ramon turned, mouth twisted wryly. “Sunday, November third. Your cast’ll be off by then.” A knowing gaze. “You’re going back there then, aren’t you?”

  “I thought I might.”

  Ramon’s head at a slant, nodding. Like he was readying to send a brother off to war, write me, keep your butt low.

  “Hey,” he said, “I knew that before I even called today.”

  Chapter 35

  The weeks of October saw no small number of changes in the workings at Dawson Ministries.

  They purchased a forty-foot C-band satellite uplink dish for one and a quarter million dollars, delivered and set up behind the chapel. Tons more hardware was brought into the chapel, which had undergone hasty remodeling to accommodate it: a pair of second floor classrooms cannibalized, their adjoining wall knocked out, the newly enlarged area converted to a master control room. It was jam-packed with video and audio equipment, receiving a direct feed from the auditorium’s four cameras and numerous microphones. A monitor console showed the input from each camera, previously taped segments cued for play, preview for standby, the character generator for credits and bottom-screen message crawls, and the outgoing master mix as seen by viewers. Directorial commands were handled at a mixing board chock full of sliders and rotary pots, routers and switchers.

  The new equipment wouldn’t run itself, so they brought on new crew members to baby-sit it all, technicians and directors and managers. Experienced, of course, official Dawson Ministries’ policy being that cost was no object. All were given a crash course in the particulars of ministry expectations.

  Satellite time was booked with a company headquartered in Houston. Gabe saw to it that one of their orbiting birds had an available transponder during a preferred Sunday morning time slot. Unheard of, throwing together a live telecast with such an anorexic buffer zone of time to get the kinks ironed out, and they didn’t know how they could possibly help him, seeing as how all transponders had been booked for months — until Gabe handled the situation with diplomatic aplomb. He took a meeting with the company president and showed up with an attaché case choked with a neat array of greenbacks. Under the table with a wink and a nod, just to pave the way for harmonious working relationships in the future. Another televangelist with credit problems was bumped for delinquent payments, casualty of the almighty contract loophole.

  It was the best they could do. Sunday mornings, eight a.m. to nine a.m., here in the central time zone. This late, it would have been a logistical jungle to try rearranging the schedule with every independent station across the country with whom Dawson Ministries syndicated, to assure the show was live on all fronts. But a scan of the schedules showed that, across all time zones, this slot was already occupied in 45 percent of the stations airing their taped format. Surely, as was explained to Gabe, Dawson Ministries could accept 45 percent live and 55 percent taped delay. For starters.

  Yes. He agreed they might.

  Live it would be. For Gabe suspected that no technology could record the intricacies of Paul’s brain for later playback. Preparations for the switch steamed ahead on schedule, and from his vantage point, it all appeared smooth as polished gold.

  Gabe looked.

  And saw that it was good.

  It felt like new air, and he breathed it with new lungs. A new spring to his step, a new sharpness in his eye, everything feeling vital again.

  Something’s different in me now, Paul thought. But that’s okay. The old Paul had only been working at partial efficiency anyway. Boosted confidence levels, or something, finally settling into some semblance of comfort with his magic hands. Giving them their weekly workout, funneling the bodily misfortunes out of others, pocketing them within himself under the lights’ hot glare.

  He watched them, this pathetic parade, wringing their own hands while hoping for a taste of the divine. Getting it, then having eyes of gratitude only for Donny. Kissing his hands, bleating their thanks, weeping their tears, while he soaked it all up like a money-grubbing sponge.

  Lately, it was the only time Paul really saw him come alive, and it was annoyingly hard to begrudge him this one joy in life. After all, the guy had given him his opportunity here. Now he walked around with shattered stature, or remained sequestered in his office, like a deposed monarch kept on the throne for figurehead purposes. A ceremonial head of state brought out to please the rabble.

  Or so he looked. Who knew? Paul did not.

  But Gabe’s words that Sunday while whisking him home from the hospital came back with striking clarity. It’s time you moved up in the world. Donny knows it, and to be honest, I think you’ve got him a little scared. He’d given it little thought at the time — more flattery from Gabe — but the words possessed unsuspected staying power, growing tendrils and roots.

  Suppose Donny was on the way out? Not to dwell upon reasons, which could be myriad, and were secondary anyway. Would Dawson Ministries survive without him? It had, in a sense, developed a life of its own apart from its founder. Creations such as this were often built to outlast their creators. Empires of power and money, influence and charity, continuing unimpeded long after their founders had been put out to pasture.

  Or sent to the glue factory.

  While worthy successors rose from within the hierarchy. Gabe would know that better than anybody, wouldn’t he? He was just that kind of guy. And he was the kind of guy happy to shun the spotlight and leave it to others. No charisma to speak of, just a weird, compelling magnetism of ideas and faith and willpower. He got his rocks off behind the scenes.

  Which leaves me, Paul thought. There is nobody else. I’m the one he sees taking over whenever Donny bows out. It probably wouldn’t come right away, but Gabe obviously sensed its inevitability and planned accordingly. Perhaps he was just as unhappy with certain facets of the current sovereign as Paul was.

  Now is the autumn of our discontent. Pray tell what winter might bring.

  The subject weighed heavily on his mind one night in mid-October, he and Laurel coiled together in the dark of his room. Late night, crazy late, netherhours of sweat and passion, cooling under a pleasant throb. Her bottom, his arm, both libidos. Together they burned, and it was dizzying, terrifying, wonderful. She could empty him dry, and he could send her rolling through furious red waves. Sucking each other’s breath away. A master-and-pupil relationship wherein each role was up for grabs, the delineations blurred. They had mapped each other well, and in short time, each learning how best to feed from the other.

  Yet, didn’t he love her? He
supposed he did, though he’d yet to declare it, nor had she. But this was no one-note relationship, the evidence was there. They shared, they trusted, they nurtured bonds. They both had rocky track records; perhaps deep within, they also shared a fear that declaring too much might jinx the future.

  Two ships that crash in the night.

  “Hey.” His hand coaxed her hip. “You awake?”

  “Mmmmm…” Into his shoulder, sleepy. She fought it before his eyes, won for now. “Mmm hmmm.”

  “Do you think … at our level here … that ambition has any place? Is it wrong? Does it belong here at all?”

  Laurel yawned, stretching with feline power. Marbled under moonlight, shadows light and dark, streaked with mysteries. “What time is it?”

  “I asked first, fair is fair.”

  She offered a sleepy smile, resigned herself to staying awake, floating between the two worlds, open to both. “Ambition? Yeah, I have it, sure. When Amanda went away, I jumped at the chance to fill that slot. It bothered me at first, a little. Like I was taking advantage of somebody. But I don’t care. What bothers me more is the way some of the other girls treat me. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not Miss Popularity on the other side of the dorm.”

  Paul waved it off. “People do that sometimes. Make like they really support your ambitions, but it’s only as long as you aspire to mediocrity. If you’re better than that, then sometimes you scare them. Or it makes them feel like shit about themselves, and all of a sudden you’re a jerk because you’ve succeeded. You see that a lot in radio.”

  “Anyway,” she said. “I thought you came here to get away from stress like that.”

  “Can’t hide forever. Things come up.” How much to divulge? Oh, why not the whole wad. “I think I’m being groomed for something. Like, in the event of Donny’s retirement.”

  “Oh yeah? Congratulations, champ.” She grinned again and loosely snatched his hand, dragging it aloft like a referee. “You’ve got the touch.”