Cult (21 page)

“I'll go,” O'Hara said when the car had disappeared down the road.

The Sheriff nodded then moved toward Jeremiah again.

“You win,” he said. “He'll look for Amos and bring him here.”

“And no one else.”

“That's the deal.”

Jeremiah's smile broadened. The Sheriff controlled his urge to put a bullet in the man's brain, end it once and for all.

Good idea
, he thought.
Armageddon. Get rid of the problem once and for all.

“Now we have to talk to him. Tell him what's going on,” the Sheriff said cautiously with a glance toward the building. He looked at O'Hara who nodded and started toward the building.

Jeremiah continued to smile. What was disconcerting to the Sheriff was that Jeremiah seemed so ordinary, so human, a man like him. He knew it was a trick, a disguise. He felt the handicap of his own humanity, his fallibility and limitations. The person he faced seemed so sure of everything. The Sheriff was sure of nothing.

“He'll try to get him to hand over his gun, then we can make the exchange when Roy comes back with Jack, just as we agreed.”

“Jack?”

“I mean Amos.”

Jeremiah nodded, but the Sheriff knew he had given something away. Again, he cursed his incompetence.

“That's the deal. Amos and Mary for the boy. And oh, yes, we will have him back.”
His remark was cryptic, but not totally puzzling. Yes, the Sheriff knew, they would get him back, both physically and mentally.

Unfortunately, returning Jack would change nothing. Kevin would return with his father. Naomi would go back to Washington. O'Hara and Roy would continue to be itinerant deprogrammers unless the law got to them finally. All in all life would be the same. His nightmare of the eyes would continue.

It's time to go home
, he told himself,
back to my own people, back to my roots.
Pack up Gladys. Time for us to go back to our home.

He watched as O'Hara moved to the cabin.

“Make way,” Jeremiah said through the megaphone. The circles broke for him to pass.

“Harrigan….” O'Hara's voice was clear, echoing in the silence. He called again, then again. Finally the door opened and O'Hara disappeared inside.

A light drizzle began, the mist obscuring his vision. A chill had crept inside the Sheriff. His bones felt like cold metal, the perspiration pouring down his sides and back. He forced his gaze along the circle of Glories. They looked human. Yet not alive, oblivious to what was going on around them.

He watched the door of the cabin, regretting the decisions he had made. Just one more regret to join all the others.

Naomi sat on the floor, her back against the wall. In her arms, Kevin slept fitfully, thoroughly exhausted by the ordeal. When a spasm shook him, she soothed him with a reassuring word, kissing his forehead.

Barney leaned against the far wall, the submachine gun beside him. He was writing in his notebook, “bearing witness” as he called it. From time to time, his eyes drifted toward hers, glanced at her briefly, then back to his notebook.

She supposed she should be thankful. He had not shot anyone. Not yet. Through the window of the house, she had seen the Sheriff and O'Hara talking with Jeremiah. The sight had calmed her. She assumed they had been negotiating, making a deal for them to go and take the boy.

“It's been terrible for him.”

He mumbled an answer that she did not understand.

“You should never have got him involved,” she whispered. “It wasn't fair.”

He looked up briefly.

“So you are still on ‘fair?'” He sighed, showing a measure of exasperation.

“Fair is everything,” she said. “Without fair we are uncivilized.”

He shook his head and let out a sigh.

She did not answer. Not now. Not until this horror played itself out.

Suddenly they heard movement outside.

“Harrigan!”

O'Hara's voice. Barney was instantly alert. He lifted the gun and stood up.

“Harrigan! It's me, O'Hara!”

Naomi and Barney exchanged glances. Kevin continued to sleep, stirring briefly, then slipping back into slumber.

“I'm coming in,” O'Hara said. “Is it okay?”

Barney hesitated, then moved closer to the window. He nodded and moved to the door and pushed it open. The lock was broken but the hinges still worked. O'Hara came in and Barney pushed the door shut.

“You all okay?” he asked, nodding to Naomi.

“Yeah. We're okay. We want out of here.”

“I know. We're taking steps.”

O'Hara looked exhausted. There were deep circles under his eyes.

“Steps?”

He glanced from Naomi to Barney and bit his lip.

“Got a problem,” he said, his nostrils flaring.

“I'm listening,” Barney said.

“They want the two, the two we tried to break back there.”

“I thought you broke Jack,” Barney said, puzzled.

“He ran. Roy is out looking for him. We did bring the girl.”

“Who gives a shit?”

O'Hara swallowed hard, moved to the window and looked out.

“You see what's out there.”

“Yeah, we know what's out there. I'd kill them all if I had enough bullets.” He patted the magazine. “That's all there is. Not enough. They won't let us through. I could knock off, maybe twenty, thirty. They'd never let us out. These people….” He paused. “Are they people, O'Hara? These aren't real people. They don't feel a fucking thing.”

“The deal is,” O'Hara said. “We bring them Jack… Amos. Whatever. They let you leave with the boy.” He glanced toward Naomi. “And her.”

“You so sure Roy can find him?”

O'Hara shook his head.

“I don't believe this,” Barney said.

“Believe it.”

“I want out of here, O'Hara. And I'm going out one way or another.”

“Don't do anything stupid.” O'Hara shook his head. “This is not a good idea, coming in here with that.”

“They took my son. And killed my wife. What was I supposed to do? Okay. I should never have got him involved. I thought, well, I thought that it might trigger Charlotte… I was wrong. Everything I did was wrong.”

“Barney, I know what you've been through.”

“Why doesn't the Sheriff do something?” Naomi blurted.

“He's sort of on the horns of a dilemma,” O'Hara acknowledged. “It's too fucking complicated. I'm here to tell you to cool it, is all. Wait it out. Jack is disoriented. He's probably just roaming the hills, maybe afraid to make contact with the outside world. It happens like that….”

“What the fuck do you know? So high and mighty. You couldn't break her.”

“What can I say? You play the odds in this game.”

“You fucked up.”

“More or less,” O'Hara admitted, glancing toward Naomi.

Barney stiffened and raised the barrel of the gun, pointing it at O'Hara.

“Don't!” Naomi cried. In her arms, the boy stirred again, then fell back to sleep.

“We're getting out of here,” Barney said.

“Don't be a damned fool. They'll….”

He never finished the sentence. Barney upended the gun and hit O'Hara a glancing blow to the head with the butt. O'Hara staggered backward and fell to the floor.

“Let's go,” Barney said.

“I'm not…,” Naomi began.

“Just come. No bullshit. Enough, Nay. Enough.”

Frightened, she rose unsteadily and shook the boy awake. Barney moved cautiously, opening the door. The four rows of Glories, hands locked, stood impassively, smiling, robotic. Barney, moved toward the inner circle with Naomi following and holding Kevin's hand. He was too disoriented to know what was happening. She was petrified. It took an effort to force her legs to move.

Suddenly the chant began again.

“Satan Satan Satan.”

Waves of sound rolled over them.

“Satan. Satan. Satan.”

Barney moved to the edge of the first circle. Pointing the gun down, he let off a few rounds on the ground. The noise was deafening, but the circle of Glories held their ground.

“They aren't human!” he screamed.

In the distance she heard the Sheriff's voice.

“Don't, Harrigan. Don't.”

With the butt of his gun, he hit the joined hands of two Glories in the front row. The force of the blow broke them apart, and he moved to the next row, followed by Naomi and the boy. The Glories ignored the pain and joined hands behind him.

“This is madness, Barney,” Naomi cried. Kevin began to cry. “Don't worry, darling.” She told him. “Everything will be all right.”

As they moved, the chanting continued: “Satan. Satan. Satan.”

Suddenly the sound of the megaphone boomed into the air. The chanting, as if on cue, was silenced.

“Stop this at once, Harrigan,” the voice on the megaphone cried. Go back to the cabin. Do you read me? Go back to the cabin.”

“Fuck you,” Barney cried, slamming the butt down on two locked hands in the second row of Glories.

Naomi looked at their faces. Their expressions were empty, devoid of emotion, their eyes glazed, their lips posed in a smile. As soon as they passed through the circle, the hands were rejoined again.

Don't they have any feeling?
Naomi wondered.
Don't they feel pain?
Their reactions were inhuman.

Kevin continued to whimper.

“It will be okay,” she said, kissing the boy's forehead.

“Go back,” the megaphone blared again.

“Listen to him,” the Sheriff cried, his voice an impotent bleat next to the sound of the megaphone.

Behind them, they heard O'Hara's voice. She looked back and saw him staggering as he tried to negotiate the stairs. Suddenly he fell, slipping on the hard ground.

“Don't,” he cried. “Listen to them.”

“For Chrissakes, Harrigan!” It was the Sheriff's panicked voice. She saw him running toward them. Again, Barney lifted the butt of the submachine gun and slammed it down on the hands of two Glories in the third circle. Then he moved to the last circle.

They broke free just as the megaphone sounded again. This time there was no voice, only three whistling sounds. She could see the Sheriff stop dead in his tracks. She watched him as he stood staring at something going on behind them. She turned and followed the direction of his eyes. Barney, too, looked behind him.

“Oh my God,” he cried.

What she saw came to her as if in a dream. In the dead silence, the Glories were sinking to the ground en masse. She heard gurgling sounds, some groans, a few brief whines, then silence, utter, complete, devastating silence. Her mind could not process what her eyes were seeing. Hundreds of Glories were stretched along the ground, like scattered cordwood. Jeremiah was dead at the Sheriff's feet. She placed her hand over Kevin's eyes.

“You must not look,” she said, while she stared at the sight, mesmerized and disbelieving.

“Off to paradise,” O'Hara whispered. “I tried to explain.” He shook his head and tears brimmed over his eyes.

“They've….” Naomi tried to speak. “All these young people. Why?”

“Because,” O'Hara said, then could not go on. He dropped to his knees and began to sob hysterically.

At that moment, they heard the sound of a car coming up the road. The car came to a halt and Roy came out, dragging Jack along.

They both stopped abruptly, surveying the scene.

In the eerie silence of the camp, the Sheriff stood frozen, barely comprehending as he watched those who were still living come forward. There were four adults and the boy. Five, counting Holmes, who sat on the ground with his head in his hands. On the ground, not far from the group, was the dead Jeremiah, the megaphone at his side.

Jack lay on the ground, sobbing quietly. For a long time, neither of them spoke as they silently observed the grisly scene before them.

“Shouldn't surprise us,” O'Hara said, his voice hoarse but calm. He seemed to have recovered from the shock. The Sheriff had acted by instinct. Unfortunately, he had been too late. Too late, all around. He had seen it happening, had been part of it. It was even too late to blame himself. He continued to observe the scene in silence, his sense of action paralyzed.

“Sorry,” he managed to say. “I wish I knew….”

What he wanted to say was that he wished he knew what to do now, what to say, how to explain it. In a little while, as soon as he found his voice, he would have to do what Sheriffs do. He would have to call people, bring them here, talk to them. He knew in his gut that they would not understand. No way. They would look at him like deer caught in the headlights, without any comprehension.

Of course, the evidence of the suicides were there for all to see. Sniff the burnt almond. It permeated the air. They had all consumed liquefied cyanide. Killed themselves almost instantly. But no one would truly understand. Even Father Glory himself would offer his version, which few would comprehend. He might even distance himself from the deed, babble something about valuing life or some such platitude. He was, after all, just another two-bit preacher with a thirst for power and another dumb idea about immortality, eternity and paradise.

Fuck paradise!
the Sheriff shouted inside himself, looking at the bodies strewn around the camp.

He felt shame. His badge lay heavy on his chest, leaden. Sheriff? That was a laugh. He was just a dumb man with a silly little badge on his chest, charged to protect the citizens of his county. He looked at the bodies strewn around the camp. Some stupid fucking lousy little Sheriff. He knew he couldn't hide behind this badge any more.

Worse, he told himself, people will forget. The Glories will benefit, have their martyrs. People who give their life for a cause are often declared heroes. The Glories would create posthumous medals, even monuments and special songs. They had the money and the apparatus to promote things like that. The media would make it look like it was his fault, a slaughter aided and abetted by a corrupt Sheriff who took the law into his own hands.

In anger, he tore the badge from his chest and threw it on the ground. Yet even through his sense of abandonment and abdication, he knew he would have to see it through. The coming ordeal might give him his own salvation. He relished the idea, feeling his courage bounce back, the old pure sweet feeling.

They would use every trick, every legal maneuver that lawyers could concoct, twist the truth, make him the real culprit. They would find him guilty of malfeasance in office. He would taste public disgrace, humiliation. Maybe even go to jail. It didn't matter. In the end, he would be free of them, free of the nightmare of the eyes. Cleansed. One thing he knew, he'd go down kicking and screaming. He was on the side of the angels now. And he still had Gladys and his boys. They would understand.

“Hey, Sheriff,” Barney said, as if sensing what was going through his mind. “It's not your fault.”

“Whose then?”

“I'll take some of that. I overreacted. I should have known after I saw what they did to Charlotte. We're all vulnerable, I'm afraid, all victims.” He pulled out the notebook he had stuffed behind his belt. “I've written it all down. Everything I did. Everything we went through. I'll get the word out.”

“You don't look very concerned, Harrigan,” the Sheriff said.

“Tell you the truth, I'm not.”

He glanced toward Naomi.

“I don't know what to say,” Naomi said. “It's awful.”

“Yes, awful,” O'Hara said. “I know. Morality. Free choice. Civil rights. All the goodies of a civilized society. These people once owned all these things you cherish. Somebody deliberately stole them, absconded with their minds. Look at them now.”

“Shit happens,” Roy said.

“As good an explanation as any,” O'Hara said.

“Better make my call,” the Sheriff said. He started toward the administration building, then he remembered that Jeremiah had a cell phone on him. He bent over his body and pulled it off.

“Who really gets the blame for this one?” he muttered to no one in particular. He looked at the bodies lying in their supine circles. Then his eyes drifted to the shattered poster of Father Glory.