Colleen flinched. “Thanks to you.”
“No,” he said. “Her damage is all your doing. She hates you—more than you’ll ever know.” He smiled an ugly smile, turned and left.
Colleen stood there, heart pounding like a piston about to break, smoking the last of her cigarette with shaky fingers. Thinking of Pamela. And all she had done wrong as a mother.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
At one time, 555 Fillmore had been an imposing church of light brick with embedded carved sandstone crosses and tall stained-glass windows. Built just after the 1906 quake, it had changed hands more than once, was converted into a roller rink in the early part of this decade, and fallen on hard times, recently taken over by a “church” from South Africa by the name of Die Kerk van die Volmaakte, which translated from Afrikaans to “The Church of the Perfect.” Colleen had spent a couple of hours in front of a microfiche machine at the public library on Van Ness and learned that the faith seemed to believe that its founder, a charismatic young man with long oily hair and a crucifix tattoo in the center of his forehead, by the name of Adem Lea, or Angel 22, was the reincarnation of Jesus, biblical Adam, and a few other people as well, including Tsar Nicholas and Brian Jones of The Rolling Stones. Adem Lea had brought the church over from Johannesburg when he fled the country to avoid a prison term for tax evasion and human trafficking.
The building had suffered its share of distress, from boarded-up windows to graffiti to crumbling mortar between its bricks, to handbills posted on its once stately columns, which held up a tall portico. Despite that, a sizable congregation was gathering outside. Colleen stood across the street in the light drizzle of early evening, watching, wondering what Pamela had gotten herself into now.
All ages and races were represented, all shapes and sizes, with one common physical trait: a vacant expression. Most were dressed in a mishmash of thrift shop clothing, except for the two men on the door who wore heavy off-white robes and were checking ID cards as people funneled in. The run-down look was by design, Colleen had learned, austerity being one of the eleven tenants. Eleven was a significant number, as was twenty-two—Adem Lea’s angel designation. Multiples of eleven were important. The church exacted a hefty tithing from their working members—their entire salary in many cases—which was the reason for a labor law investigation by several members’ families. Die Kerk also had a few high-profile supporters in its ranks, but much was shrouded in secrecy, although people who got on their wrong side did not tend to fare well. One man who filed charges against Die Kerk for holding his daughter had his house burned down. Parents who made inquiries about their son were run off the road in Napa. Colleen wasn’t surprised. Moon Ranch had a similar MO. It was standard cult operating procedure.
She didn’t see anyone who looked like Pamela in the crowd.
First Moon Ranch, now this. Out of the frying pan into the fire.
Colleen crossed the street, feeling overdressed in a smart beige raincoat over a dark knee-length dress, stockings, and black high heels. Her idea of going to church was obviously different than Die Kerk’s.
Beginning with a policy of invitation only, it seemed.
She got in line behind a group of women, doing her best to blend in. No one seemed to be talking. No one seemed to smell very good either. One of the eleven “reëls”—rules—advocated bathing no more than once a week, the day after the Sabbath. God’s protective layer of oils was negated by soaps and fragrances.
The robed guards were busy verifying blue ID cards. When her turn came, Colleen tried to squeeze behind a large Samoan woman.
“Wait, woman,” a swarthy guard said to her. “Where is your docket?”
“I left it at home this morning. I just came from work.”
The big man put a hand on her shoulder, left it there, something she didn’t particularly care for. “You need a docket.”
“Where would I get a temporary one?”
“Your guardian.” He shifted Colleen to one side with his big hand. “You’re holding up the line.” He looked over her shoulder. “Next.”
Colleen stood back, wondering how to get in. From inside the hall, the squeal of a Farsi organ announced the beginning of an eerie dirge.
Hands in the pockets of her raincoat, she scanned the lost faces. None with Pamela’s haunted, angry countenance.
“Do you need a docket, woman?”
Don’t we all, Colleen thought, turning to see a large bear of a man in a run-down pin-striped double-breasted suit that looked vintage ’40s. A frilly blue ruffle collar stuck out incongruously. Wild hair sprung out of a beret pulled down tight on his melon head. A long wispy goatee completed the oddball look. He smelled like he’d run a marathon, which, judging by his physique, he hadn’t. His eyes stared down at her hungrily.
Colleen fought the shudder of repulsion. He might be her ticket in.
“That would be perfect,” she said.
He put a meaty hand on her waist, a little too friendly, guided her back toward the door.
“This woman is my guest,” he told one big guard.
“Amen, Brother Arno.”
Soon they were in the dark, airy church, lit by the flickering lights of the former roller rink, in a gutted hall with no seats. A couple hundred people milled about, no one speaking much. Stained-glass windows added a suggestion of spirituality. The air echoed with off-key electronic music. Guards in robes and sandals wandered about, keeping watch. Onstage, behind an empty podium, a large white screen fluttered with a draft of air, projecting a larger-than-life full-length photo of Adem Lea, Angel 22. He was a slender man in his forties with a piercing stare, made even more so by the tattoo of a crucifix in the middle of his forehead, just off center. He was also completely naked, from head to toe. Below the photo was an inscription in what Colleen assumed was Afrikaans: God het niks om weg te steek nie, and English: God has nothing to hide.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Once they did, she jumped when she noticed a plump middle-aged woman standing naked on one side of the stage, a black hood over her head. A sign around her neck read: vir skaamte. On the other side of the stage a young black woman stood in a similar situation.
“What on earth is that?” Colleen asked Brother Arno.
“They are cleansing their shame,” Brother Arno said. He stood close to her, his body touching. Her quills were up even as she knew she must use her attraction to her advantage.
“No men?” Colleen asked.
“Men shame themselves in different ways.”
Colleen just bet they did with this crowd. If Pamela was involved, it needed to be brought to a stop. Moon Ranch were starting to look like Cub Scouts.
“Your first time with Die Kerk?” Brother Arno said with an air of suspicion.
“My first service here.” Colleen introduced herself as Carol Aird. She scoured the room, looking for Pamela. No luck.
“What drew you to our church, Carol?”
“I guess I’m looking for something,” she said. More like someone.
“Aren’t we all,” Brother Arno said sagely, stroking his goatee.
“I’m looking forward to the sermon,” she said. “Where is Brother Adem?”
Brother Arno gave her a curious look. “Brother Adem won’t be preaching tonight. He’s on a journey. A search for perfection. With 242 of his chosen ones.”
More numerology. She had read something about mysterious pilgrimages to far-flung places, but there were scant details.
“Really?” she asked. “Where to?”
“That is not for me to share.”
“When did they leave?”
Brother Arno looked her over before he answered. “Over a month ago, now.”
“I see,” she said, watching people siphon in. Still no Pamela.
“Are you looking for someone in particular, Carol?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Who would that be?”
“A friend,” Colleen said, not sure how to proceed.
“Her name is Pamela. Pamela Hayes. Would you know her? Have you met her?”
“I don’t think so. What is her perfect name?”
She had no idea. But she worried about exposing herself as a Grade A phony. “Good question. To be honest, I don’t really know her all that well. She was a friend of my brother’s before she came to Die Kerk, and he told me how much it had done for her. She couldn’t stop talking about it.”
“I see.” Brother Arno was growing suspicious.
She didn’t need to be thrown out. “I’ve been intrigued with Die Kerk ever since.” She gave him an intimate smile, pushing back her feelings of disgust. He had to be close to three hundred pounds.
“So you don’t have a guardian, Carol?”
“Not yet,” she said, giving him the eye. “I hope that’s not a problem.” She parted her lips, stared into his eyes.
He returned a furtive smile. “Well, we were all new once.”
“Exactly.” She turned. “Just look at these people. They seem so … content.” They didn’t. “So alive.” Not really. “So …”
“Perfect,” Brother Arno said.
“Yes,” she said, turning back to him. “That’s the word.”
His hand rested on her lower back, just above her rear. “It takes time and the ultimate sacrifice to reach true perfection. And a commitment.”
The ultimate sacrifice made her shiver. “If something is worth having,” she said, “the price is never too high.”
“How true.” Brother Arno began stroking her lower back. He leaned over. “I could help,” he said. “I could be your guardian.”
She clasped her hands together. “Would you? Would you be my guardian, Arno?”
“Brother Arno. And yes, I would. But there are conditions.”
Ugh.
“We can go upstairs,” he said matter-of-factly.
She jumped. His rubbing hand formed a larger arc, touching her butt. She moved away.
He continued: “I see you are alarmed, Carol. Don’t be. Attitudes toward fornication are merely society’s conditioning. Fornicating is a way to break those conventions and enable your search for perfection. To shorten your path to all Die Kerk has to offer.”
She moved away again. “I think I’m going to say ‘no thanks to the fornicating’ for the moment.” She laughed, tried to pass it off as a joke.
He came in again, his words hot in her ear. “Why? Are you menstruating?”
She turned, glared at him. “Please tell me you didn’t just say that.”
“There is nothing shameful about bodily functions, Carol.”
“Agreed. But it’s my body. And I don’t feel like discussing it.”
“Do you believe you need to be in love to fornicate? Die Kerk does not promote romantic liaisons.”
She moved again. “What time does the sermon start?”
He came in again, breathing hard. His breath was rank. “I understand your nervousness. But physical intimacy is a shackle that must be broken between guardian and neophyte. In order to overcome your anxiety, and your woman’s shame, and the physical attraction that exists between us, which is shallow and fleeting and only impedes perfection, we fornicate, so that the act doesn’t overshadow the true bond we will build.”
“What—no dinner and a movie first?”
He laughed. “I must admit, your teasing excites me.”
Lucky her. She moved yet again. “Look, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Brother Arno, but I’m a gentle slope kind of person as far as the old fornicating goes. I really need to take my time.”
“All women must pass this step. We can go upstairs now, where it’s more private.” He was rubbing her back again. “It won’t take long and I can get you an application. I can even introduce you to Brother Adem.”
“I thought he was on a pilgrimage.”
“When he returns.”
“When will that be?”
“A few weeks.”
Did that mean Pamela would be back in a few weeks? “Let me think about it, Arno.”
“Brother Arno.”
“Brother Arno.”
He breathed heavily as he moved in yet again. Grimaced. “Then I’m afraid I’ll have to have you removed, Carol. I’m the one who authorized your temporary docket. I can just as easily unauthorize it.”
“Well, that’s not much of a date, is it?”
“‘Dating’ is an antiquated concept propagated by a collapsing world. It’s also forbidden. Reël number seven. Don’t you want to find your friend? What was her name? Pamela?”
She had come this far. She’d have to endure a little more of stink man.
“Well, yes, Arno …”
“Brother Arno.”
“Brother Arno,” she said. “But I really want to hear the sermon, too.” And see if Pam shows. “Then we can go upstairs—maybe.” She put her hands on his big shoulders, pushed him back a foot. “How’s that?”
Brother Arno huffed his disappointment, crossed his arms over his chest.
More people arrived. Still, they were remarkably quiet for such a large crowd.
A man got up onstage and went behind the large screen. The nude women with hoods stood on either side with heads hung. Not long after, lights dimmed, and the projected picture of Adem Lea disappeared. Colleen used the opportunity to move away from Brother Arno into the crowd. A tinny gong sounded over the loudspeakers.
Rousing music boomed as a grainy black-and-white film flickered on the screen.
A hush fell over the already subdued crowd when Brother Adem Lea appeared on-screen. Mercifully he was dressed, wearing his floppy hat. He appeared to be in a forested setting. Trees loomed. Birds called.
The first words he spoke were in Afrikaans, a language Colleen had no sense of. But he was solemn, delivering some sort of prayer that the crowd mumbled along with.
When the recitation was over, Colleen leaned over to a young man.
“What was that about, please?” she whispered.
“Silence,” the man said. “It is the gebed van die volmaakte dood.”
Whatever that was.
Thankfully, Brother Adem Lea switched to English, spoken with a strong South African accent.
“Blessings, children. I regret I cannot be with you but know that I am with you in spirit. I and 242 other brothers and sisters destined for perfection are on a sacred pilgrimage, in a place far from nuclear attack by our corrupt and immoral government. Please keep us in your prayers and understand that if you continue to follow the eleven principles, you too will join me on the path to perfection.”
He went on to say how there would be no miracles performed this week, but that he knew which members had cancers and illnesses, and would heal them from afar. He praised members for their tithings, in particular one woman who had recently joined from Indianapolis, who was feeding her children birdseed in order to save money to construct Die Kerk’s sanctuary, Verligting, at the Throat of Fire. Colleen wondered what the Throat of Fire was. Something to do with his current location?
“Our mission is so important, children, I cannot stress it enough. Aided by our corrupt and immoral government, we humans have destroyed our world, and only one solution exists to appease God. We all know what that is, and it is blessed. Rest assured that you are blessed for having recognized what so many others haven’t and for taking the only action.”
The finality of his words chilled Colleen.
He spoke in Afrikaans again, and when he was done, he gave a two-fingered peace sign. The film flickered off. Pulsating psychedelic blobs appeared on the screen. The organ music resumed. Subdued conversation followed.
“Ah, there you are.”
Colleen turned to see Brother Arno. Not looking too pleased.
“What is the ‘Throat of Fire,’ Brother Arno?” she asked.
Brother Arno eyed her. He wasn’t about to answer.
“What’s this solution Brother Adem is talking about?”
“Reaching perfection, woman.”
“And how does one do that?”
“By not asking so many questions—especially when one is new. One follows. One learns.”
Colleen just needed to learn how to manage Brother Arno’s horny expectations.
He reached out. “Take my hand.”
Christ in a hammock. “Where are we going?”
“To the office—upstairs.”
She took a deep breath. She had to find her daughter. “For an application, right?” she said. “An application. That’s it?”
“Yes.”
She took his hand. It was clammy, soft, moist.
Brother Arno led her across the crowded floor. Rank-and-file members stepped out of their way. He guided Colleen to a dark wooden stairwell, up a creaking flight of stairs that he labored to mount. The smell of must prevailed. The Farsi organ wailed in the hall downstairs.
Upstairs, down a hallway, he stopped at a door. Got out some keys. Unlocked the door.
Into a windowless room. A storeroom. Stacks of boxes. Cleaning supplies. He left the light off. The room was dusty, close, and barely lit by weak ambient light from the hallway.
She made out a mattress on the floor by a radiator.
“This doesn’t look like much of an office, Brother Arno.”
He steered her in, pulled the chain on a single overhead bulb, shut the door behind her. “It’s quite comfortable.” He took off his jacket, hung it on the hook behind the door. His body odor was sharp and sour.
He turned to her, gave her an oily smile. “You are a very agreeable woman, Carol. Your body is quite a distraction to the goal of perfection.”
“I get that a lot. But you said you were going to get me an application.”
“All in good time.” He unbuckled his belt, smiled, thrust his big pelvis out. “Would you care to do the rest …”
The hairs rose on the back of her neck.
“Brother Arno,” she said, putting her hands together again. “After my husband died, I took a vow of celibacy. To honor his memory.” Kind of true. A decade in prison had certainly helped. And she had been the one responsible for his death. But ever since, her involvement with men had taken a backseat. A select one or two. “I really need time to adjust to the—ah—commitment.”
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