Commitment - Predatory Ethics: Book II (3 page)

“The One is real then. The Seed Giver offered to the Goddess every harvest takes his place. He is real and will be old enough in seven years. Does that mean the world will end in that time?” The question was that of a child. Didier believed everything Anicée had ever told him and saw no reason to question his beliefs now, yet did because he did not want to die. He had witnessed over twenty harvest sacrifices and could not understand this finality as a choice. He could not separate himself from the simplest desire to live. He still wanted. Most people’s sticking point was this desire, so he didn’t feel slow as he had been ridiculed as a child.

“No, Didier. It will simply be the start of the final time, the End of Days,” Anicée answered simply. She continued that The One was found through the Illuminated Ones. The Architects who ran the governments and played sport with life for entertainment and pleasure had tried to claim him as theirs. They believed he was their Prince’s Son, their AntiXos, their Redeemer.

This could not be so Anicée went on. The One was the Dying God, the Earth Mother Consort who would lay with the Maiden and be sent to the consciousness when he fulfilled his destiny. Until now, this fate was acted out by surrogates, stand-ins, and channelers. The real article was on Earth to reward their devotion, but the One could be lost to them.

“Wait a minute here,” an incredulous voice asked. “Now just hold on.” It drew closer and as the speaker came into the view there was a collective rolling of the eyes from the small crowd looking up at the four women. It was the American. Of course there were other Americans in their covens, but this one had all the traits implicit in the definition. He was tall, broad-shouldered, balding and beer-bellied, loud, opinionated and almost always misunderstood. “When did all this horse-shit happen?” Greg Montana blustered. “Now excuse my French there Anicée, but come-on. Why are we finding out about this now?”

“Mr. Montana, there is no cause for concern. We’re talking about it now, and you’re finding out about it now. I’ve only learned of it now myself.”

“Oh wow. Is that right?” Greg threw up his hands in exasperation. “Well if you’re caught with your pants down, where does that put us?” An arched blond eyebrow drew a quick addition as he said, “Didn’t mean anything by that, figure of speech.”

“We’ve known about him in legend of course, but we have always been operating on faith since, as we all know, our worship is an oral one.” An exasperated sigh followed Greg’s giggle and Anicée soldiered on. “We don’t have holy texts that spell out anything like prophesy. All that we believe is sung or given voice through our priestesses or channelers—”

“Why not write it down then? Make up holy texts,” Montana interrupted and instantly apologized with his upturned hand.

“Everything we believe would stagnate and lose its immediacy and connection to its people.” Anicée rubbed her hand across her short hair and wondered how this complete enigma before her had ever reached high adept, let alone been accepted pagan.

“That is neither here nor there, however, Mr. Montana, Greg, because we never write anything down this news had to have come to us through word of mouth and some of those mouths were silenced before they could relay this momentous news.” Once Anicée told Greg and all assembled about the intrigues of their hidden members no one spoke. They all listened like children around a campfire.

She said they had members everywhere. Several had tried to bring them the news of The One but were silenced before they relayed the information along to the next link in their chain. The One was almost physically mature but imprisoned. He was in an asylum where he neither spoke nor saw anyone. That was all anyone knew.

Anicée asked everyone to go and find out whatever they could to help The One reach them. She released all the shocked and awed adepts, oversaw the clean-up of the Seed Giver’s remains, and returned the holy objects and banners to their hiding places. By the time all was done, not even the years of dust at the Down Street Tube station was disturbed.

She exited by herself and happily found Helen waiting with a warm embrace and passionate kiss. They walked into the night arm in arm and followed by a willing shadow that kept his head discreetly down and his face reverently calm. Didier never let his priestess out of sight. He followed everywhere and never asked for any more than was given. He found more warmth and acceptance in her eyes than the world entire had given in all of the rest of his life.

Time: October 31
^st
, 1973. Seattle, Washington, U.S.A.

Theodore Bundy was parked at Lake Sammamish State Park for an hour pretending to read a book. He watched a blithe, blond girl with long flowing hair doing stretching exercises after a stressful day at work. She had already noticed and did not mind being watched by the handsome man in the beat-up beetle. His eyes glinted dangerously, and she thought that was sexy.

Theodore visualized her pliant neck between his fingers and how it would softly give as he squeezed her lies from leaving her mouth. The rejecting breath that always came out of pretty women’s mouths, choking the throat that gave treacherous breath entrance to sound.

Ted saw his Stephanie in every pretty girl. She called off their engagement years before, and he wanted revenge on all her treacherous kind. The ones with the same hypocritical walk, the slacks, the long straight hair, and the same hidden plans. They couldn’t hide any longer; Ted saw through them.

He was seeing Stephanie again and didn’t think of how, his fiancée, Elizabeth, would feel if she knew. It wasn’t cheating if it was in another state. Everybody knew that. Anyway, he was only doing it to get back at Stephanie. It was only payback. Now she would see how it felt to be hurt and rejected when you’ve given yourself to another.

The One had come to him in a dream and showed him where she was and how all the cunts operated. He showed him where their lies and treachery were hidden if you knew where to look. The One showed him what to look for. He showed him everything he needed to know.

“Strumming my pain with his fingers, singing my life with his song. Killing me softly with his song, killing me softly with his song.”

Roberta Flack sang to Ted. He calmed a little to the melody and hummed while he remembered his Redeemer’s instructions. It was not time to begin the sacrifices yet. Ted wanted to so badly so he could show them who’s boss, but the real boss told him to wait and even knew Bobby Cowley, Ted’s real name. Bobby was so grateful that The One had shown him all his tricks he had to show him how much he loved him, how much he cared.

“He sang as if he knew me in all my dark despair, and then he looked right through me as if I wasn’t there,”
Bobby went on humming and had switched to the la, la, la’s. He decided to wait, do as he was told, and started the car, driving away to Roberta and
“Killing me softly with his song, telling my whole life with his words, killing me softly, with his song.”

Time: October 31
^st
, 1973, Norwood Park, Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

J.W. Gacy listened intently to the news. The Sears Tower was named the world’s tallest building, and it filled him with a momentary pride. Ever since he was beaten and called sissy as a boy, he needed to belong and to be liked. It wasn’t a conscious need, but its desperation hung on him like bad body odor driving many away. He was active in the community, was a Jay-cee, elected “Man of the Year” recently, and entertained sick kids, in community hospitals as Pogo the Clown. He and wife Carole would entertain the rest of the neighborhood with street parties and barbecues and went out of their way to be neighborly. John’s openness and friendly nature helped him to meet new people and kept him on everybody’s mind, which helped his successful contracting business.

He was away from home a lot, drumming up business, and this contributed to the break-up of a first marriage in Iowa. The sodomy rape charge by a boy who worked for him was a complete lie, and he had told his first wife Marilynn that, but the embarrassment the charges caused proved too much for her. The stares, pointing, and whispers really made her doubt his innocence. So she left and he couldn’t blame her. It had been embarrassing enough for him to move back to Chicago.

Compared to the Sears Tower, Marilyn was barely a memory now. The Tower would be a good icebreaker for new potential clients, he thought, but he was distracted by a gurgle from the young man beneath him. John’s hands were around a rope and stick he used to twist slowly around his hump’s neck. Each turn of the stick twinned through the rope brought him closer to asphyxiation and stopped his exhilarating struggles to get away. The fighting made it more fun and got John giggling sometimes when he thought they might buck off his over 300 pounds after he started to really get going.

He made sure they wouldn’t fight too hard by drugging their beers or just plain chloroforming them. He invited most over to talk about construction jobs he had for them. After he watched the film wash over their eyes, he sometimes joked he would love to blow them. A few times he did and a few liked it, but even if they didn’t he would strap them into a workbench and plow them like a Clydesdale. He first strangled them with his hands but switched to the rope and stick when it was just too hard and took too long. Besides it distracted him from the fucking.

He grunted and bellowed his climax, was immediately ashamed, and looked down on a bare ass and his intruding cock. His disgust was swapped with fury, and he repeatedly punched the already strangled young man crushed between his bulk and the customized workbench. He stopped punching when his hand began to throb in pain.

Hysterical tears of self-revulsion then completely possessed him as he came to grips with what he’d done. He went through this ritual every time and when it finally ran its course, he dried his eyes and blew his nose with a tissue, as he did now, switched off the television and tuned in a station on his little transistor radio. He would need something mobile.

The Yom Kippur War had ended a week before and they were still talking about it. Jews, Arabs, blah fucking blah.

Talk about America like how is Elvis doing now that he’s single. He was a good-looking boy, John thought. Mmmmm, tasty, yum, yum. He kept tuning the radio until he got Tony Orlando’s hot tamale voice singing,
“If you received my letter telling you I’d soon be free, then you’ll know what to do, If you still want me.”
John sang along.
“If you still want me, whoa tie a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree, it’s been three long years, do ya still want me?”

Ah, it was just as The One said. All you need is a good little song on the radio and your day is turned around. He was so happy he found his Redeemer. This was the fourth sacrifice he had given to his savior since he began paying tribute in 1972. John said a silent prayer of dread to his lord as he dragged the remains of the sacrifice into the crawl space beneath his Summerdale Avenue home. He begged forgiveness for the regret he showed when he was conducting the ceremony. His two chins quivered in terror while he dumped this latest body into the still damp hole he had dug earlier.

Tony Orlando still tried his best to keep John chipper from the top of the stairs.
“If I don’t see a ribbon round the old oak tree, I’ll stay on the bus, forget about us, put the blame on me.”

It was no use. Nothing was getting through to the names John Wayne Gacy called himself. They were the same ones the boys in his youth tormented him with: sissy, faggot, girly, pansy, homo. All chased his self-esteem around his head until it quivered into a small black ball.

He failed to give proper tribute. Next time he would get it right. The next time The One would be pleased and find this little sissy boy worthy. The next time little girly John would be the one to pick and chose who belonged in his savior’s company. The One had promised him in dreams and visions that if he showed him proper tribute he would be welcome above all else into his company. The next time John Wayne Gacy would be somebody special.

Time: November 2
^nd
, 1973, Templar Chapter House, New York, U.S.A.

Bernhardt walked down a corridor lined with fluorescent light, reflecting off painted stone walls. The walls were cut out centuries before by the first Templars to arrive on these shores after their downfall in 1307. Few knew it existed, having begun as a haven from a hostile world; it was kept jealously secret. It stayed that way, hidden from a world that had almost completely stricken them from existence. The holy brothers relied solely on themselves and didn’t trust any other order or group for almost seven hundred years.

Many buildings had been erected over the Templar Chapter House. Their walls originally took shape as stone hovels, then were replaced with brick, and now held up concrete and limestone mountains. Throughout, it sheltered Templar heads and kept them from prying eyes.

Bernhardt stopped before an ironbound heavy, wooden door with bars recessed into its top open third. Despite its fortifications, the door wasn’t intended as a jail. It first kept people out instead of keeping Seneschal Tino Quentin in.

He sat on its narrow cot and looked at the bare, iron window of the door. He still got up and stood at attention every time his Grand Master came. He still nodded his greeting and only responded when spoken to. Still the petulant child, Bernhardt thought. Father Quentin was still hurt by Bernhardt’s apparent betrayal.

“What say you, Father Quentin?” he asked. “Ready to join our struggle to keep what’s ours?”

“I will do as I’m expected, sir,” he responded every time. On the surface this seemed fealty, but beneath it could easily mean open war against anyone who Quentin thought betrayed what the Catholic Church expected.

“Will you do what I tell you to, Tino?” His question was direct. He didn’t want platitudes; he needed this man’s unique skills and didn’t want to destroy him if he still obstinately wouldn’t give in. There was precious time left to wait for Good Father Quentin to come around and be reasonable. It was fast becoming a luxury, they could no longer afford; one Bernhardt would have to decide upon. “Will you do what I expect of you, Quentin?”