Father of Lies (10 page)

Elder Blanchard:

I do not know how you managed to gain access to my preliminary study of Fochs. Quite frankly, I don't care to know. There is always someone willing to serve the Lord who feels that his obedience to God justifies taking every liberty.

I have seen this coming for some time. The claims you yourself publicly make for the freedom of the Zion Foundation, for our ability to operate separately from the Church, are obviously empty. I am disappointed with you, with the Church, and with our foundation.

Despite all claims the Corporation of the Blood of the Lamb makes to be a divinely inspired Church, it seems oddly as eager as any worldly institution to soil its hands in a little impropriety, to cover a few things over if that means furthering the cause of righteousness. What happens to the claims of divine guidance at such moments? Can such guidance be flicked on and off like a lightbulb? Do you believe you can hide from God?

What few of my files you have will do you little good: the provisional evaluation in them was based on the belief that what Fochs described as his disturbing dreams, thoughts, and feelings were indeed restricted to dream, thought, and feeling. But I have discovered enough since writing that initial study to realize that Fochs's “dreams” and “thoughts” are in fact real experiences, acts he has committed. It is much worse than you thought, Elder: you do not have a disturbed provost who is thinking shocking thoughts; you have a provost involved in the destruction of children, who feels no remorse, and who has used his church position to prey on children. Was “divine guidance” accidentally switched off when Fochs was called to be provost?

I want my papers returned without delay. As to your suggestion that I resign, I have no intention of doing so. But I will not cooperate either.

                                        
Sincerely,

                                        
Feshtig

Aaron P. Blanchard, Apostolic Elder

The Corporation of the Blood of the Lamb

Church Headquarters Facility, Floor 25

Director Kennedy,

It is of the utmost importance that I obtain all materials related to Doctor Feshtig's analysis of Provost Fochs. A great deal is at stake, none of which I am at liberty to discuss. I would suggest you do all you can to accommodate the Lord in this matter.

I understand you had a certain amount of difficulty obtaining the materials you have already sent. Trust me when I say further papers must be obtained by whatever means possible, even means that, in normal circumstances and without the direction of the Lord, both you and myself would shy away from. It is at crossroads such as these that those who truly love the Lord, those who are willing to serve his Church with all their might, mind, and strength, distinguish themselves from the common herd.

I command you to take any and all action you deem appropriate toward the resolution of this matter. Though I in no way care to have my name or the Church's name associated with whatever course of action you choose to undertake, and though I would prefer not to be appraised of the details, trust that the Church will always be there to uphold and defend you.

                                        
Yours in Christ,

                                        
Elder Blanchard

Alexander Feshtig

Zion Foundation Institute of Psychoanalysis

Elder Blanchard,

I was summoned this morning for an urgent interview with my provost. When I arrived, I was made to understand that my worthiness to be a member of the Bloodite faith was being called into question. I was told that someone had reported that in my psychiatric practice I was “preaching a vision of the world and the soul contradictory to the true vision offered by the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.” He said that he had been told that I had “resisted helping the Church” in my professional capacity and that I was “openly preaching a nihilistic rejection of the soul that contradicted the Church's recent Statement in Support of Family Values.” When I questioned him as to who had raised these charges, he at first would not say, but did indicate that it was “somebody worth listening to.” After a great deal of prodding, he reluctantly admitted it had been you.

It seems you are trying to intimidate me into cooperating. Clearly you have no compunction against avoiding all proper channels and inflicting your will on a provost in awe of your authority: someone who is, for you, a disposable token in a game of power.

As to your accusations regarding my world view, it is true that I do not attempt the same sort of simpleminded synthesis of the gospel and the psychiatric profession as would someone like Director Kennedy with his so-called “Christianalysis.” Kennedy is, quite frankly, in flight from an understanding of the self, using clichés and the worst religious inspirational propaganda to paper over people's problems. He does considerable damage to his patients, distancing them from the possibility of cure.

I will not have someone who knows absolutely nothing about my profession dictate what my actions should be in regard to my patients. I will not allow my integrity to be ground up in the gears of the Church just to keep from getting on your bad side.

It is clear that you are covertly encouraging my local provost to have me excommunicated. I ask you to have the dignity to confront me directly instead of hiding behind my provost, pretending that these decisions are being made locally rather than at a higher level.

You shall have no further information on Fochs unless you go through proper channels and receive permission from Fochs himself. Until then, there is no justification for sharing anything with you. I will not do so.

                                        
Feshtig

Memorandum, Zion Foundation Institute of Psychoanalysis

From: Feshtig

To: Kennedy

I arrived at my office this morning to be confronted by your clumsy attempt to simulate a burglary to gain access to my papers. You have, of course, what you wanted (or rather what the Church—i.e., Blanchard—wanted), but consider, Kennedy, what you have had to sacrifice to gain it.

The next time you attempt this, you would do well to keep the following in mind:

       
—You took only my Fochs file. When you are simulating a burglary, you should take more than just the item you are after. You're a psychologist, for Christ's sake. Can't you at least make some pretense of actually thinking like a burglar?

       
—Usually a burglar has to have a way in. In this case, the door was locked, the windows unbroken. Am I to believe that the burglar picked the lock, overturned my furniture, pried my private cabinet open with a crowbar, took Fochs's papers, and then carefully locked the door as he left?

Kennedy, you are obviously not cut out for burglary. This is serious business. Stop and consider where this is leading you. In a short period of time, you have begun, in the name of God, to sacrifice all your ethics. Where will you draw the line? It is apparently acceptable for you to lie and steal. Why stop there? What is there to restrain you from killing someone if Blanchard asks it? Are you comfortable believing that the Church will never ask that of you, just as you were comfortable not long ago believing that Blanchard would never ask you to do anything dishonest.

Are you willing to turn your life over to a leader who is eager to abuse your willingness to be used?

In any case, congratulations. You have found in my office enough to keep Blanchard happy for a few hours. You should be proud of yourself. He'll leave you alone. At least until he needs something else.

                                        
Feshtig

Notebook

Some thoughts and further discomfort about my (ex)patient Fochs. His dreams have an alarming habit of resurfacing as news stories. In the newspaper today, two mothers claim their boys were sexually abused by one Provost Fochs, six months ago. The particulars correspond with Fochs's dream of the two boys in all important points.

My responses complicated by Kennedy's unexplained interest in the Fochs case. I am looking harder for ghosts than perhaps I should.

Listening again to the Fochs tapes, speeding through. Strikes me differently when I hear his disembodied voice—something disingenuous about his words that his presence masked from me before. Though perhaps I am reading into his voice what I expect (and fear) to find.

Calls to Fochs's office, two attempted through the secretary, one by myself from the gas station on the way home. Never an answer.

A bad night. J. gone to spend weekend with his mother and me left alone in the house, no moon, the windows black and expressionless. Even when I press my face to them I can hardly see out. I keep going out to stare at the yard until my eyes slowly adjust to the dim shapes, then back inside again.

A dream of my own, stolen from Fochs's repertoire. The girl's head hanging back between the shoulders, a pulpy sack. No more than that, a frozen sepia locket, slowly fading from vision and falling asunder.

I awoke terrified and stumbled about the house, turning on all the lights.

Not worth interpreting.

Called Fochs, no answer. Hiked in the morning, up through the aspens to where I could see the whole smog-ridden valley spread below. A smudged but dizzying prospect.

…

I drove across town to the address Fochs had listed on the clinic's forms. No home there, only an empty and overgrown lot humming with grasshoppers.

I tried the telephone number again, received no answer. Opening the telephone book, I looked up
Fochs, Eldon.
He was not listed in any of the communities in the book. I should have thought to demand the name of his congregation, though most likely he would have lied about that as well.

There was, though, in nearby Carswell, a Myra and Zina Fochs. Farm Route 12, #4. I wrote the address down.

Trouble at work, Kennedy angry with me. I am the one who should be angry with him.

J. retrieved. Briefly uncomfortable for me to see my former wife, but over quickly. J. spoke nonstop and with great nervousness all the way home.

I dialed Myra and Zina Fochs's number. An answering machine picked up and a male voice I didn't recognize asked me to leave a message. I considered, then hung up.

Probably it will lead nowhere, but it is all I have. It is only a half hour drive to Carswell. I will go tomorrow.

In the evening, after leaving work, I drove down Farm Route 12. At the fourth mailbox, there was a small house on a large property, fields behind and to either side. The man who opened the door was in his forties. Blond hair spilled over into his eyebrows. He wore a battered felt shirt and stitched cowboy boots, his skin pleated and red from sun.

“I'm looking for Mr. Fochs,” I said.

“Looking at him. I'm Myra Fochs.”

I introduced myself and apologized, explained I was looking not for him but for another fellow by the name of Fochs.

“Oh?” he said. “Not many Fochses around anymore, and nearly all that are are related. Who you looking for?”

“Eldon Fochs.”

He looked at me a little strangely, demanded again to know who I was. I was a psychiatrist who had been working with Mr. Fochs, I explained, and who needed to get in contact with him.

“I suppose you better come on in,” he said.

Inside, the house was simple and small, the furniture covered with flowered sheets that had been pleated to hug them. The walls were a pine, stained orangish-brown. A small, ceramic plaque of a bear was on the wall, along with a lacquered bullwhip, a spread lariat, and a picture of a smiling old man in a black Stetson.

A woman, around the same age as Myra, sat awkwardly below the picture. She stood to greet me, touching her hair, smoothing her skirt.

“It's about Eldon,” the man said to her.

“Oh Lord,” she said, and left the room.

He sat down in an easy chair, motioned me to the sheet-covered couch.

“I try to keep my distance now,” he said. “We never were close. We got different ways of being in the world.”

Leaning forward in his chair, he craned his neck to one side. He unbuttoned his shirt and tugged it back away from his neck. Underneath, along his clavicle and down into his chest, were three dark parallel scars.

“That's his work,” he said. “Eldon's, I mean. Did it with this kind of tool he made for himself out of wood and barbed wire. Long, skinny job, stiff and sharp. Saw him do in a rockgut with it too.”

“Rockgut?”

“Sure,” he said. “Prairie dogs they get called as well.” He buttoned his collar up. He sat still for a moment, just looking at me, then rolled up his pant leg, showed a portion of his calf where the skin was a scarlet band, dauped and irregular.

“That's his work too,” he said. “He got me tied up one time when we were kids and had Frank's cattlecutter and some tongs
he stole, and started cutting and tearing. Was going to fry it up, but Frank caught him first.”

“Who's Frank?”

“That's the stepdad. He was okay mostly. That's him in the picture,” he said, pointing to the Stetsoned man.

“What's your connection to Eldon?”

“Why, he's my brother.”

“He told me he was an only child.”

Myra snorted. “He never did like any of us much.”

“How many are there?”

“Let's see. Three at first: Eldon first and me second and Janeen third—she's a girl, a woman now—and then Momma went and divorced Daddy. Then Frank showed and dragged in two more about my age, and he and my mother decided to have one more just for good measure. All three of those have a different name, though. Bidwell. Only me and Janeen and Eldon were Fochses. Why'd Eldon come to see you anyway?”