“No. You’re doing something, I know it.” He glanced over at Ivan, who was standing dumbly on the sidewalk, staring at his fingernails as though the present conversation didn’t concern him in the least. Martin stifled the urge to run up and slap him. He focused his attention back on the girl. “I’m going to find out what you’re up to,” he said in a way that he hoped sounded menacing. “This isn’t over. Not by a long fucking way.” With that, he turned his back and marched toward his car, feeling tired and angry and confused, calling himself a coward for not rushing into the building like Superman, then telling himself how little a stunt like that would have accomplished. If he was going to do something to help Ivan, he’d need a plan.
Before he climbed into his own car, he peered inside Ivan’s again, feeling empty and beaten at the sight of the stuff in there, the dirty clothes and CDs and junk that had belonged to the old Ivan and not to the new one, the zombie one with the hollow eyes. I’ll get you back, man. Somehow I will.
By the time Martin got in his car and pulled out of the parking lot, both Ivan and the girl had vanished back inside the church.
* * * *
Crandall’s was in full swing when he returned, and even though Martin initially thought it would be best to wait until after closing time to tell the girls about this enormous setback, it occurred to him that he might need all the help he could get. Most of the regular patrons of Crandall’s were friends, or at least acquaintances, and if he told all of them what had happened, perhaps he’d have more resources to draw upon if things got ugly.
He decided to break the news to Chloe first. He found her in the kitchen by the espresso machine, her red hair askew, her brow furrowed. As Martin approached, she looked up at him, her eyes widening and filling with hope, but then just as quickly crinkling with worry again. “He’s gone, isn’t he.” It wasn’t really a question.
Martin collapsed into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. A local punk band was playing out in the main room; their furious beats rattled the dishes. “We have to try and get him back,” he said. “Those cult people have done something to him. I don’t know what, but he isn’t the same, Clo.”
He proceeded to tell her everything that had happened, his weary voice weaving a thread beneath the apocalyptic noise from the stage. He hadn’t realized how completely defeated he felt until he had laid the whole story out in its bare details.
When he had finished, the furrows in Chloe’s brow had grown far deeper, so deep that it looked as though a frustrated artist had scrawled black pencil lines across it. She did not seem defeated at all; she was livid, the skin of her cheeks nearly as scarlet as her hair. “How could they have screwed him up in so short a time?” she said, her arms crossed, foot tapping obsessively on the linoleum. “He was fine this morning. What did they do, give him a fucking lobotomy?”
A similar idea occurred to Martin, if only in a half-serious way. “I don’t know, but they must have done something. That guy looked like Ivan and sort of acted like him—I mean, it was Ivan, but then it wasn’t. He wasn’t acting stupid or out of it, and he recognized me right away, so I guess they didn’t drug him. What other possibility could there be?”
“Well, we’re gonna find out.” Chloe grew a foot taller, and her face took on an aspect of stony righteousness. Martin couldn’t remember ever seeing her so angry. He had to admit it scared him a little. Okay, a lot. “I’m going to tell the others about this,” she said, flicking her head toward the kitchen door, behind which the band howled and pounded.
“Do you think we should call the police?” Martin asked, already knowing what her answer would be.
“And tell them what?” Chloe said. “If those people have done something to brainwash him, then he’d just say he chose to go there.” She pulled her apron over her head. “No, we’re going to get as many people as we can convince to go with us, and we’re going to go to that place and get Ivan back if we have to drag his sorry ass out of there naked and screaming.”
Martin had no more to add to that. As Chloe made her way out into the main room to raise an army, he followed behind her, wondering what in the hell they were getting themselves into.
Chapter Nineteen
Even though Lily was overjoyed to have the pretty tattooed man among the family, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment, too, knowing it was Rose who had convinced him into the fold. Besides that, now that he was one of them, he didn’t seem quite so intriguing as he had before. He rarely played his guitar at all, and, in fact, spent most of his time staring blankly at the shining instrument, as if he couldn’t quite remember what it was for. Every now and then he’d reach out and absently pluck one of the strings, and Lily’s ears would perk up, but then he would sit back again and just stare, his face troubled. She wondered if he’d been more interesting when he’d been unattainable.
Father, however, seemed immensely pleased with this new addition, and went out of his way to spend time with him, make him comfortable. Lily thought this very unusual, and resented it, but dared not speak up, for fear of losing even more favor. She tried to console herself with the assumption that Mother and Father had a plan for what was best, and that Ivan was apparently an important part of that plan.
It seemed this idea of hers had merit. Just a few hours after the confrontation with Ivan’s friend, which Lily had watched from just inside the door of the church, Father announced that Ivan had agreed to help recruit his friends to the cause, and to help obtain access to the white house in the woods where he had lived until today. “I’m sure they’ll come after me,” he said in his quiet and somewhat world-weary voice. “I can get them to come inside and see the light.”
All the members of Bellwether were excited to hear this; recruitment had slowed to a trickle over the last few days, and Lily could tell that Father was beginning to worry. She still didn’t know exactly how many more followers it would take to make him and Mother happy, but if it was more followers they were after, then by God, Lily would do anything to oblige them.
* * * *
Ivan couldn’t remember exactly what had happened.
He remembered leaving work, remembered talking to the girl in the red dress out on the sidewalk, in the long shadows. He remembered passing through a glass door into a sea of staring eyes.
Now, he sat confused, strangely empty, feeling like himself yet somehow like an unrealized copy of himself, a shell waiting to be filled. He could remember Olivia and Martin and Chloe, but the memories were vague and mostly meaningless, as though they were simply people he’d read a story about, long ago. He had no desire to do anything now but stay in the church, fight for the church, do the will of Mother and Father, his masters. The members of Bellwether were his people now.
His argument with Martin was still fairly fresh in his mind, although even after only a few hours, he could sense that it was beginning to fade. Though Martin didn’t mean anything to him anymore, Ivan still retained enough of his former identity to realize that Martin and the others would probably come back to get him. That was all right. Bellwether always needed new recruits and Mother especially could be very persuasive.
* * * *
It was past three in the morning when a fleet of six cars set out from behind the darkened and imposing silhouette of Crandall’s. Chloe’s rattling Cavalier was in the lead, and Chloe herself was at the wheel, her entire body taut and leaning forward in grim determination and readiness for action. Her eyes were lit with something hot and feral.
Martin sat in the passenger seat, his stomach clenching sporadically, his palms soaking sweaty prints onto his pants. Olivia was in the back, her still form outlined by the glow of the headlights shining behind them. After telling Martin about the blueprints at the county records office, the ones that showed a room behind the landing wall, she had fallen silent except for an occasional sniffle. Martin had initially been surprise
d by her news, but then realized he now had bigger problems.
The five cars following were filled with friends and sympathetic strangers, including a couple of muscle-bound rockabilly types, the local chapter of the women’s roller derby team, and three members of the punk band that played earlier in the evening. Martin couldn’t shake the feeling that most of those who wanted to come along were half-drunk and restless, out looking for a few laughs, or maybe a fight. He was still glad of their numbers, their comforting and visually intimidating presence.
It was a short drive to the strip mall where the church was, and the small parade of cars arrived in less than ten minutes. All the shop windows were dark, including Bellwether’s, but there were dim orange lights over the sidewalks, and the nearly barren parking lot was lit up like Times Square. There was very little traffic at this time of night; the main street was eerily quiet, and although Martin was glad, part of him wished for more noise and activity. The stillness was making him nervous. When a motor revved in front of the 24-hour Denny’s down the street, he almost jumped out of his skin.
Chloe pulled into a space relatively far from the church, a spot half concealed by shrubbery. The three of them piled out and watched as the other cars parked in a neat row beside them. Everyone got out and stood looking at each other gravely. The ones who had been half in the bag looked as though they’d sobered up on the drive over. They all looked a little uneasy, the seriousness of the situation finally hitting home for them. No one spoke.
Finally, Chloe strode toward the shop fronts, and the others dutifully fell into line behind her, troops following their general into battle, though not, Martin hoped, to certain doom. He wasn’t sure why Chloe had taken it upon herself to lead this bizarre expedition; he was terrified for her, but deep down he had to admit he was relieved that someone else had stepped up and taken the reins. He had wanted to, very badly—Ivan was his best and oldest friend, and he loved him like a brother—but he simply hadn’t known what to do.
Chloe didn’t either, it appeared, but Martin knew this niggling little fact was unlikely to deter her. Sure enough, she walked so quickly and purposefully toward the door of Bellwether that Martin thought she might simply kick in the glass and go waltzing right in.
As it turned out, such commando tactics were not necessary, as the door opened from within when Chloe was still a few yards away. She stopped abruptly and planted her feet, poised to spring. Everyone else followed her lead, making a bedraggled battalion under the sodium lights. Martin fought the insane urge to sing something from West Side Story, or scream for the Warriors to come out and play.
Ivan was the first out the door, and, for a second, Martin thought this whole stupid plan was going to be far easier than anyone had imagined—simply pile on Ivan, drag him to the car, and speed away into the night. Set and match.
The others came tight on his heels—the dwarf girl didn’t inspire much fear, but then came a few not-so-wimpy-looking guys, including Sammy, and behind them a severe-looking man with a bald head, a salt-and-pepper beard, and eyes as black as bottomless wells. He looked familiar, but at first Martin couldn’t place him. More people followed, mostly young men and a few women—the fit fighting force, Martin thought with bitter humor.
Martin spotted someone he did recognize in the back of the crowd—that hot young thing who had argued with him on the sidewalk tonight in her saucy red dress. Except she wasn’t wearing the red dress now, but a short sheer nightie from which white lace panties barely peeked. Realization hit him like a ton of falling bricks. The bald man hadn’t worn a beard back then. That was why Martin didn’t recognize him immediately. He and the pretty girl on his doorstep that day, months ago—had these people been watching them all along? Was this all some sort of elaborate plan? He reached for Chloe, not to stop her, but just to tell her, to let her know what she might be dealing with.
Chloe wasted no time in taking charge of the situation, and she spoke up before Martin could even open his mouth. “Ivan, you’re coming with us,” she said in a voice that Martin recognized and also dreaded, the one that would brook no arguments and suffer no nonsense.
“Chloe.” Ivan spoke clearly and a little sadly. He appeared perfectly calm and rational, except for the fact that he was obviously not Ivan anymore. He stood under the orange lights, his blond hair shimmering, his face like that of an animatronic puppet’s. “My home is here now. I’ve already told Martin that. Please don’t make any more trouble for us.”
“What did they do to you?” That was Olivia, who had stepped forward to stand next to Chloe. Martin could see that Olivia was not handling this well; her chin trembled as she spoke. “Don’t you remember me? Or even care? You love me and I love you. Or have they taken that away, too, along with the rest of you?”
Ivan’s expression of melancholy deepened. Martin wondered if it was all for show, or if his friend actually did feel anything for the people he’d left behind. “Mother and Father have done nothing but show us the way to truth,” Ivan said, his voice stilted, his slight Russian accent more noticeable than ever. Some of the others behind him nodded solemnly at his pronouncement. The bald man and the beautiful girl simply smiled in triumph.
There was a long, pregnant pause as the two factions stood facing one another across the strip mall parking lot. Martin half expected a cop or a security guard to happen along to break up the party, but then he realized he hadn’t seen a single car pass on the main road in the past several minutes. It seemed as though they were in a dimension outside of time.
“So, that’s it then? That’s all you have to say for yourself?” Chloe’s hands were on her hips, her red hair blowing in spiky wisps. Even Martin was a little afraid of her.
“Please go, all of you,” said Ivan, taking a few steps forward with his hands outstretched as though he was begging. “I’ve made my decision.”
Chloe didn’t move. “See, that’s the thing, though,” she said. “I don’t think you’re capable of making a decision anymore.” Martin saw the muscles in her calves and arms tense. He had a feeling this might all end badly, and was about to tell Chloe of his premonition, but in the end he just shrugged. Well, here we go.
A second later, Chloe turned her head. “Let’s get him,” she hissed.
* * * *
It was a melee. Martin ran forward without thinking, not even sure what his objective was or what he would do if someone turned on him with a weapon. He simply surged forward with the others, carried along on the mindless tide.
In the confusion, he thought he saw several of the church members fanning out as though to receive the interlopers, but a few of the other ones ran purposefully back inside the church, as if the whole strategy were intricately planned ahead of time. Maybe it was, whispered the small part of Martin’s brain that was still capable of rational thought. Maybe it’s a trap, and you’re being herded inside the building, the proverbial lambs to the slaughter.
This thought was disturbing enough to break through the buzz of crowd mentality, and he opened his mouth to shout to someone, anyone who was nearby.
Before he could warn his friends, he saw something so odd that words simply dried up in his throat.
One of the guys from Crandall’s—Martin thought it might have been the drummer from that punk band, although he couldn’t be sure at this distance—ran directly at a shrouded form standing just off to the side of the church door. Martin couldn’t tell if the shape was a man or a woman, or even a living person; it was draped with fabric of various muddy colors, not moving at all. Ivan was nowhere to be seen; he’d probably gone back inside, and apparently the drummer was following him.
The kid never got as far as the door. Suddenly, the shape came to life, a hawk-like hand shooting from amid the folds of material and fastening on the scruff of the boy’s neck, as though the figure was a mother cat and he one of her kittens. The grip didn’t even look hard enou
gh to hold him back, and although the boy was small, he was young and well muscled. Nevertheless, at the touch of the thing’s hand, he immediately stopped moving. He remained upright, but his whole body nevertheless sagged, as though the bones beneath his flesh spontaneously disarticulated themselves and fell in a heap at his feet. The thing stood there, a heaving formless mass, its long-taloned hand resting almost companionably on the drummer’s bare neck.
Martin was sure he saw a flash of light, as bright as a camera flash, but much quicker, so quick that he wouldn’t have been certain of seeing it at all if his retinas hadn’t suffered a harsh purple blindness for the next few seconds. He blinked and looked back at the drummer. The boy had straightened up, seemingly all right again, but when he turned around and Martin got a good look at his face, he could see that the boy wasn’t all right at all.
That thing did something to him, Martin thought crazily, still running toward the church, but not seeming to get any closer, as though he were in a nightmare, as though the building kept moving farther and farther away. That thing did something to him when it touched him.
Martin glanced over at the drummer’s face again as he ran. It still looked like the boy’s face, but also impossibly looked nothing like it—not as if something were added or altered, but rather like something indefinable had been taken away.
Just like Ivan.
Christ, how are we ever going to get him back? Martin finally pushed his way into the church, no longer sure if he was pushing with or against the people around him. He looked around frantically for Chloe, and then he saw her a little way away, red hair stringy and flying. She still seemed all right, still looked like herself. Evidently, none of the other church members could do the camera flash trick, because most of them sat in folding chairs around the room, staring open-mouthed at the invaders. They didn’t seem so much angry as puzzled. Martin glanced around for the big bald man, the one who’d turned up at the house, but he couldn’t see him. If that shrouded whoever could do the thing with its hand, then maybe that guy could, too. His absence made Martin uneasy.
Bellwether Page 11