Reign in Hell

by William Diehl

  A minute passed. Then he heard her footsteps outside the door of the RV. She tapped lightly.

  “It’s open,” he said, softening his tone as much as possible. He kept his eyes closed, heard the door open and the voice.

  “Brother T?”

  “Yes?”

  “I brought you some dinner, sir.”

  “Well, thank you, my dear.”

  He sat up in the chair and motioned her in. She entered cautiously, almost reverently, staring around the dimly lit living room of the RV. It was pleasantly furnished and religious paintings filled almost every available space on the walls. Obvious paintings—the Last Supper, Christ with his arms outstretched and his heart aglow, a crucifix— then she saw him and she gasped in awe. She stood like a post, the plate trembling in her hand.

  “You must be Penny,” he said.

  “Y-Y-Yes sir,” she stammered, her voice as soft as a wind chime.

  He was seated by one of the large windows in an easy chair, his fingers tracing the raised braille icons as he read the Book with his fingertips. She stared, fascinated by the flowing hair framing the aesthetic face, the look of strength and serenity, the sackcloth caftan. Her eyes moved to the picture of Christ, and the comparison was immediate. He smiled, then he opened his eyes and she was so astonished she almost spilled the lemonade. He was staring directly at her with milky, ambiguous, unfocused eyes that seemed to peer into her heart and soul and read her mind.

  He reached around to the side of the chair and swung a small table on rollers in front of him.

  “Put it right here,” he said.

  She obeyed, setting the plate and glass on the table and putting the plastic knife and fork beside the plate.

  “Sit here beside me,” he said, and when she had pulled over a canvas-backed chair, he added, “I want to look at you.”

  “Look at me?”

  He reached out toward her voice, found her cheeks with his fingertips and slowly began to trace her soft skin. She closed her eyes as his fingers flitted over the lids, caressed her nose, stroked her lips. Her breath came faster and she could feel the blood flowing up into her face.

  “Perfection,” he whispered. “Thou art the rose of Sharon and the Lily of the valleys. Behold thou are fair, thou hast doves’ eyes, thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, thou art all fair for there is no spot on thee.”

  “Song of Solomon,” she murmured.

  “Have you been saved? Are you in grace?”

  “Yes.” Trembling, her voice as vague as mist.

  “Then I will speak at you from the pulpit, and later I will anoint you with the oil of redemption.”

  He slid his hands down her throat and slowly withdrew them.

  “Now be with me whilst I eat.”

  They started coming about six-thirty. Mordachai saw it first, a cloud of dust boiling toward them along the dirt road and trailing more clouds behind it, like smoke from a tail of fire. “What the hell’s that?” he said.

  Brother was resting on the cot in the rear of the RV. “What’s what?”

  “Looks like a dust storm blowin’ down the road.”

  “It’s the parade,” Brother said.

  “Whaddya mean, parade?”

  “Comin’ to the freak show, Mordie. They’re not comin’ for salvation, not comin’ to be saved. They’re comin’ for the show.”

  “Aw, c’mon, don’t start that ag—”

  Brother jumped up and swung his legs to the floor. “Makes no difference. We stroke ’em good before we’re through. Don’t make any difference what gets ’em in, it’s what happens when they get in that counts.”

  “Jeez, wish you could see this, Brother. That cloud a dust must be a quarter mile long.”

  Brother walked to the window, stood behind Mordachai, and squinted through the window. A whirlwind of dust was moving toward them.

  “Been listenin’ to the radio?” he asked.

  “Ain’t had time,” Mordachai said. “I never have time ’fore a confront, you know that. Too much t’do.”

  “There’s a front moving in.”

  “Hell, there’s a front movin’ up the road towards us, looks like.”

  “You’re not listening, Mordie.”

  “Yeah, yeah, a front…”

  “Looking for it to hit here about eight, eight-thirty.”

  “We seen fronts before, T, fronts don’t mean rain.”

  “It’s raining in Kansas. Town called Cedar Bluffs. Where’s that?” Mordachai shrugged to himself. He opened a drawer and pulled out the Hammond road atlas. Leafing through it, he found Kansas and ran his finger along the roads and byways.

  “Whaddya know, here it is. Due south a here, maybe… sixty, seventy miles.”

  “And what’s that cloud of dust tell you, Mordie?”

  The thin man peered out the window, stared at the cloud as it rose, then began to dissipate, then swirled back toward them.

  “Wind blowin’ this way?”

  “Blowing this way, right up from Cedar Bluffs.”

  “Son-bitch.”

  “Let me tell you, tonight we’re gonna pray for rain like we never prayed before. We’re gonna pray and sing and dance and offer up for rain tonight. I want you back near me, just outside the tent. You’re an old farmhand, Mordie, you can taste rain in the air. If it’s comin’ this way, gimme a sign, bang that tambourine of yours. That’s when we’ll offer up, and if that rain comes, my God, they’ll shell up everything they got. Hell, they’ll shell up their wedding rings.”

  Mordie leaned forward and cupped his hands beside his eyes. “Jeez, T, there must be twenty, thirty cars comin’ up the road.”

  “Why of course. It’s the parade, Mordie!” Brother T raised his hands over his head and his voice trembled in a mock sermon. “Brothers and sisters… get your prayers answered… get all you can eat… see the freak show… all for three lousy bucks.” He lowered his arms and chuckled. “What a bargain. Deal of the year.”

  The cars streamed almost bumper-to-bumper into the field across the road from the tent Harmon Jasper had blocked off for parking. A school bus rented for the occasion arrived with thirty-five anticipants from a Church of God congregation forty miles away. There were four-and five-car caravans from other churches in the area. One, a black, late model touring car, pulled up near the tent and a young man in military fatigues got out and approached Jasper. They spoke for a minute or two, then the farmer pointed toward the RV. The soldier opened the rear door of the sedan and two men got out, one in fatigue uniform, the other in a dark business suit. They walked toward the RV.

  “Looks like we got us some VIPs, Brother.”

  Staring over his shoulder, the preacher saw the two men opaquely. “See what they want.”

  “Right.”

  Mordachai met the two visitors as they neared the van. There was some jabber and then Mordachai led them to the RV. He tapped and stuck his head in the doorway.

  “They’s two gentlemen from the state a Montana would like a word with ya, Brother T.”

  The preacher picked up his Bible and sat in his easy chair.

  “Show them in, Mordie.”

  Mordachai led them into the living space. The man in uniform was the shorter of the two, five-ten or so, ramrod straight and obviously in excellent trim, his skin browned by the sun. He snapped his overseas cap off, revealing black hair trimmed close to the scalp. His expression was as rigid as his bearing and he wore the eagles of a colonel on his collar. The other man was a bit over six feet. His brown hair was neatly trimmed; his face had the florid look of a man with persistently high blood pressure. His linen suit showed signs of a long drive. Despite the heat, both men were dry as a desert carcass.

  “Brother Transgressor, my name’s Lewis Granger,” the taller one said. “My associate here is Colonel Shrack.”

  “An Army man, Colonel?”

  “Montana Patriots.”

  “Is that a football team?”

  Granger laughed, but the colonel s
aw no humor in the remark. “State militia,” he snapped.

  “Sorry. I don’t know a lot about sports or the militia.”

  “No offense.”

  Brother T held his hand out between them and Granger shook it. The colonel walked quietly behind Granger, staring into the veiled eyes of the preacher, studied the room, checked it all out. He did not take the preacher’s hand.

  “Welcome to our humble church,” T said. “Are you seeking sanctification?” Then he smiled. “Or perhaps… a donation?”

  “We like your message. Like what you have to say, Brother. You speak our language.”

  “I speak the language of the Lord, Mr. Granger.”

  “With a little politics mixed in,” Granger said with a smile.

  “My mission is to make sure my flock is informed. Life is choices, gentlemen. I like to think my followers have all the options.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t had trouble with the IRS,” Granger said. “They get nervous when politics and religion get mixed together.”

  “I am a church. I live by donations alone. All we own is this vehicle. Mordie keeps excellent books, always available to them.”

  Granger looked back at Mordachai, nodded, then turned back to the preacher.

  “I’ll get to the point,” he said. “We’ve attended your service several times. Missouri, Kansas, last week in Omaha. You always leave a town while your audience is still building.”

  “I go where the Lord leads. And where we’re welcome.”

  “You seem to have an aversion to publicity.”

  “Publicity corrupts the best of men.”

  “I like that. I like that a lot, sir.”

  Brother sat and stared vacantly at a space between Colonel Shrack and Lewis Granger, his peripheral vision tracking the man in the camouflage fatigues as he perused the interior of the RV.

  Granger filled the silence. “All that’s well and good, sir. I wouldn’t suggest otherwise except… well, your message really needs to be heard by more than a few hundred people a night, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Whatever God wishes.”

  “I’ve had a few talks with God, too, Brother. That’s why I’m here. God told me your message needs a wider audience.”

  The colonel suddenly spoke up. “You should be speaking to everybody who’s oppressed. People forgotten by their government, or those being betrayed by it.”

  Brother’s expression did not change. His milky eyes stared straight ahead. Granger leaned closer to him, his eyes bright with anticipation. “How’d you like to reach a couple million people a week with that message and never have to drive a mile?”

  Brother smiled. “Well, that would indeed be a miracle, wouldn’t it, Mordie?”

  “Praise God. A miracle indeed.”

  “Think that would make God happy?” Granger asked.

  “I don’t know, God doesn’t discuss His frame of mind with me.” Granger laughed. “I like your sense of humor, Brother.”

  “A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear of him that hears it, never in the tongue of him that makes it.”

  “Is that from the Bible?”

  “Shakespeare.”

  “Well read, too,” Granger said, then stopped, embarrassed by the faux pas. “Sorry…”

  “You needn’t be. A figure of speech. Actually Mordie does the reading. I just listen.” He let another awkward pause linger, then said, “What did you have in mind, Brother Granger?”

  “A radio show, Brother. I own six stations myself but I’m part of a network that has thirty stations in the northwest. Montana, Idaho, Utah, Wyoming, Colorado. Very conservative viewpoint, jells right along with yours. We’ve been looking for a religious program, one that would combine the Christian viewpoint with our political agenda.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Awareness,” Colonel Shrack said in a flat, authoritative voice. “Wake the sleeping tiger.”

  Granger looked sharply at Shrack and made a motion with his hand to tone it down.

  “We are talking about AM and FM,” Granger said. “Reach about two, two and a half million people. Excellent programming, a Christian, conservative viewpoint. Our biggest night is Wednesday. What we’d like you to do, Brother T, is consider an offer. A radio show. One hour every Wednesday night at seven p.m. We’ll provide you with a fine chorus, testimonials, a born-again preacher to introduce you properly every week. If it’s as successful as we think it will be, we could expand it, hopefully syndicate it. Think about it. Down the road, maybe thirty minutes every night heard by millions of people who are hungry to hear the truth as God sees it.”

  Brother said nothing. He sat near the end of his chair, back rigid, hands folded in his lap.

  “Of course, we’ll pay you and your staff generously.”

  Brother waited.

  “And you would share in the profits from advertising and donations.” Brother waited.

  “No personal photographs, publicity, just the way you like it. It will add a touch of mystery. We’ll tape your sermon and dub in the chorus and introduction later. You never have to show your face.”

  Granger stared at him. The preacher still said nothing.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying, Brother?”

  “Of course, Mr. Granger.”

  “It’s Lew. Call me Lew.”

  “And you’re going to be my employer, Lew?”

  “Not at all. It will be your show, sir. Your words, your thoughts. We’d like to think that, uh, we could occasionally suggest a Bible verse or two which might give you inspiration. Perhaps suggest a topic for a sermon now and then, but only if you agree. No censorship. We are all firm believers in the Constitution.”

  The preacher stood up and felt his way into the kitchenette.

  “Anyone care for a lemonade?” he asked, opening the refrigerator door and taking out a gallon jug of pale, pink juice.

  “We wouldn’t want to impose,” Granger said.

  Brother started to screw off the top of the jug but Mordie rushed to his side.

  “Let me do that,” he said.

  Brother laughed. “I didn’t want our guests to think I’m helpless, Mordie,” he said. But he waited while his aide filled a tumbler and placed it in his hand.

  “Thanks,” he said, and made his way back to his chair, checking the patch on Colonel Shrack’s shoulder as he went by. Crossed bayonets on a blue field, their hilts shaped like crosses. He couldn’t make out the words that bordered the shield, but the banner that unfurled around the two blades spelled SANCTUARY in red.

  “I’m to understand that you are offering me my own one hour radio show and also will pay me and my staff and give me a percentage of the profits and that you will in no way censor my sermons. Is that correct?”

  Granger nodded, then quickly added, “Correct. We’ll be glad to let your attorney work out a suitable contract and—”

  “I don’t have a lawyer, sir. Never had need for one. I’ll pray on this. In the meantime, you can work up what you think is a suitable contract and Mordie and I can look it over.”

  “Then you’re interested?”

  “I’ll discuss it with the Lord. Leave your card with Mordie so we know how to get in touch with you.”

  “We’re spending the night at a motel outside of town. Perhaps… breakfast tomorrow so we can continue to pursue this?”

  “Perhaps. Mordachai will let you know.”

  “Excellent. We appreciate your time, sir. And your consideration.”

  “How soon would you like to start this radio show?” Mordie asked. “Sooner the better.”

  He handed Mordachai an envelope.

  “A little donation for taking up your time… and perhaps to convince you we’re serious. A pleasure, Brother T.”

  He reached out and took the preacher’s hand. The colonel said nothing as they left.

  “Jeez, T, you like to froze those guys out,” Mordachai said, watching the two men stride back toward their car.


  “Oh, I don’t think so,” the preacher answered, and smiled.

  Mordie opened the envelope and took out its contents, spreading one hundred dollar bills on the table like a hand of cards. He whistled. “Ten big’uns, T. A thousand bucks.”

  “Showin’ off,” the preacher said with a chuckle.

  “Way to a man’s heart.”

  “Way to a man’s back pocket, ya mean. Dangling a little bait in front of us.”

  “Wonder what’s with that military fella.”

  “You remember reading to me about the Sanctuary of the Lord?”

  “Kinda. I read everything in the damn paper to you but the want ads. Them, too, sometimes. Can’t remember everything.”

  “Paramilitaries, Mordie. Very outspoken.”

  “Why would that colonel come along with the radio fella?”

  “Because they’re such staunch Christians. They are children of the Book.”

  Mordie laughed. “Don’t josh me.”

  “They got a holy war stuck in their craw.”

  “A holy war?”

  “God, Mordie, you read me about ’em at least once a week. They’re trying their best to provoke a confrontation with the government.”

  “They’s just crazy damn gun freaks playin’ soldier boy on weekends.”

  “Oh, I think not, Mordie. I think their mission goes far beyond that. What’s the time?”

  “Quarter a seven.”

  “I think I’ll revise my sermon a little. Give these boys a taste of what they want.”

  “You think they’re gonna be out there in the crowd?”

  “Of course. Probably tape-recording the whole thing.”

  “Hell, that ain’t legal.”

  The preacher laughed. “I’m sure that concerns them.”